POEMS  BY  MATTIE  GRIFFITH. 


POEMS, 


MATTIE     GRIFFITH 


3ta  first  Ctttotd. 


NEW-YORK : 

D.  APPLETON  &  COMPASTY,  200  BKOADWAY, 

AND  16  LITTLE  BRITAIN,  LONDON. 

M.DCCC.LIII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 

D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY, 

In  tho  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  District 
of  New- York. 


TO  THE 

GREAT  PEOPLE  OF  KENTUCKY, 

«t)is  little  ilolame 

IS  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED 

BY    THE 

HUMBLEST    AND    MOST    DEVOTED 
OF  KENTUCKY'S  DAUGHTERS. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


904147 


CONTENTS. 

PAOK. 

THE  DYING  GIRL, 9 

THE  LOVERS'  LAST  MEETING, 16 

LOOK  AND  LIST,  LOTE, 25 

THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAE, 30 

MOONLIGHT, 36 

To  SIR  EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON,  BART.. 40 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  Miss  NANNIE  C*****, 46 

THE  HERMIT, 50 

To  MT  SISTER, 54 

To  Miss  JULIA  DEAN, 58 

STARLIGHT  MUSINGS, 63 

THE  DESERTED, 69 

THOU  LOVEST  ME  No  MORE, 75 

MT  BIRTH-DAY, 80 

THE  STUDESTT,...                                                                             .  84 


Viil  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MRS.  ADELINE  K.  O'BRIEN, , 88 

CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR, 92 

To  MY  GEORGIE, 97 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  FATHER. 101 

THE  LONE  ONE  AT  THE  OLD  TRYSTING-PLACE, 105 

LINES  TO  Miss , 109 

To , Ill 

MY  MOTHER, 116 

To  J.  E.  BARRICK, 120 

THE  ORPHAN, 123 

IMPROMPTU, 126 

LIFE, 130 

THE  YOUNG  MOTHER, 135 

To  0.  W.  A.,  OF  TAYLORSVILLLE, 138 

To  A  FRIEND, 141 

BROKEN  BARBITON  —  WITHERED  LAUREL- WREATH  AND  BROKEN 

HEART, 143 

THE  ORPHAN'S  DREAM  OF  FAME, 148 

A  TRIFLE  TO  A  FRIEND, 153 

THE  URN  OF  THE  HEART, 156 

RECOLLECTIONS, 159 

To ,  DURING  HIS  ILLNESS, 164 


9m 


THROW  open  yonder  window,  sister  dear, 
For  all  seems  gloomy  and  oppressive  here  ; 
I  feel,  alas  !  that  I  am  dying  now, 
But  the  warm  breeze  may  breathe  upon  my  brow 
And  o'er  my  heart  a  soft  and  holy  spell, 
Bidding  my  faint  and  failing  spirit  swell 
With  the  dear  thoughts  and  visions  that  had  power 
To  brighten  life  in  childhood's  fairy  hour. 

I  go,  sweet  sister,  to  yon  far  blue  land 
Where  dwell  the  blest,  a  bright,  angelic  band, 
Where  radiant  spirits  chant  their  burning  lay, 
Their  song  of  immortality,  and  stray 
1* 


10  THE    DYING    GIRL. 

Beside  the  streams  soft-gleaming  'mid  the  flowers 
And  rainbow-groves  of  Eden's  blessed  bowers, 
And  there  I  shall  behold  our  mother's  face, 
And  she  will  clasp  me  in  her  dear  embrace  ! 

And  yet,  oh  yet,  it  grieves  my  heart,  dear  love. 

To  leave  thee  here,  a  young  and  tender  dove, 

Lone-wandering  o'er  life's  waters  cold  and  dark, 

Ne'er  to  find  rest  save  in  God's  holy  ark ; 

But  there,  when  Time's  wild  storms  at  last  shall  cease 

Thy  weary  pinions  will  repose  in  peace, 

And  their  bright  plumage  never  more  be  cast 

All  torn  and  scattered  on  the  bitter  blast. 


I'm  musing  now,  my  sister,  on  the  time, 
When  we  in  our  own  dear,  our  native  clime, 
With  our  sweet  mother  in  our  childhood  dwelt, 
Gay  as  the  singing  birds,  and  never  felt 
The  care,  the  grief,  the  agony,  the  strife, 
That  lurk  like  fiends  along  the  paths  of  life. 


THE    DYING    GIRL. 

There  round  our  home  the  rose  with  crimson  dye 
Bared  its  young  heart  of  beauty  to  the  eye, 
There  sprang  the  violets,  and  the  lilies  there, 
Pale  nuns  of  nature,  bowed  their  heads  in  prayer; 
The  jasmine,  sweetest  of  the  race  of  npwers, 
Breathed  its  full  soul  of  fragrance  in  the  bowers  ; 
Above  the  window  of  our  little  room 
The  honeysuckle  hung  in  clustering  bloom, 
Before  our  door  the  bright  blue  streamlet  played, 
Leaping  and  dimpling  in  the  light  and  shade, 
And  the  tall  trees  of  deep  and  solemn  green 
Upon  the  far  horizon  seemed  to  lean 
Like  holy  watchers  of  the  golden  sky, 
The  sentinels  of  immortality. 

And  there,  0  sister,  lay  the  burial  ground, 

A  lonely  spot  where  broke  no  rude,  harsh  sound, 

And  where  the  mournful  grave-stones  rose  to  keep 

Their  silent  vigils  o'er  each  place  of  sleep, 

And  where  at  times  we  wander' d  with  hushed  breath 

To  view  the  sad  memorials  of  death. 


12  THE    DYING    GIRL. 

There,  sister,  sleep  our  old  ancestral  line, 
And  I  would  lay  this  weary  head  of  mine 
Beside  their  forms,  and  I  would  have  a  rose 
To  shed  its  sweetness  o'er  my  still  repose, 
A  rose,  dear  sister,  planted  by  thy  care, 
Wooing  the  bright  young  birds  to  linger  there, 
And  sweetly  sing  my  mouldering  form  above, 
To  God  their  little  songs  of  joy  and  love. 
Methinks  'twould  soothe  my  spirit  thus  to  lie 
In  that  dear  spot  beneath  our  natal  sky, 
And  hear  (if  spirits  may)  on  Spring's  soft  eves 
Our  natal  breezes  stir  the  dewy  leaves, 
Waking  the  melodies  that  were  so  dear 
And  yet  so  mournful  to  my  childhood's  ear. 

Oh  !  chide  me  not,  sweet  sister,  if  I  weep 

* 

That  these  fond  dreams  are  idle.     I  must  sleep 
Here  in  this  cold,  strange  land,  far.  far  away 
From  all  I  knew  and  loved  in  life's  young  day, 
Far  from  the  ashes  of  the  brave  and  fair 
Who  bore  the  name  that  we  are  proud  to  bear, 


THE    DYING    GIRL.  13 

And  who  have  gone  before  me  to  their  home 
In  the  high  halls  of  yon  star-lighted  dome. 
Forms  all  unknown  will  slumber  near  my  side, 
The  poor  remains,  perchance,  of  wealth  and  pride, 
And  shafted  monuments  around  will  rise, 
Mocking  the  green  turf  where  the  lone  one  lies. 
But,  sister,  thou  at  gentle  close  of  day, 
Wilt  often  come  upon  my  grave  to  lay 
The  fading  flowers,  sad  emblems  of  the  fate 
Of  the  young  stranger,  lone  and  desolate. 
And,  sister  dear,  when  thou  shalt  come  to  shed 
Love's  sacred  tears  above  my  humble  bed, 
I  pray  thee  speak  to  me,  and  thou  shalt  hear 
My  voice  soft-stealing  on  thy  spirit-ear, 
And  thou  shalt  feel,  as  thrillinglj*  as  now, 
My  gentle  kisses  on  thy  sad,  sweet  brow. 

Thus  spake  a  young  girl,  pale,  but  beautiful 
As  a  rapt  poet's  holiest  dreams.     The  dull 
Cold  fliin  of  death  was  soon  to  dim  her  eye, 
Still  bright  as  yon  clear  jewel  of  the  sky ; 


14  THE' DYING    GIRL. 

Bright  with  the  visions  of  her  vanished  years, 

Bright  with  the  rainbow  pictured  on  her  tears 

By  love's  and  memory's  pure  and  tender  beams. 

Soft-shining  through  her  spirit's  shadowy  dreams. 

Down  her  fair  form  her  clustering  locks  hung  low, 

Like  willow-boughs  above  a  drift  of  snow  ; 

On  her  pale  cheek  the  fever-flush  was  bright, 

Like  a  red  flame  upon  a  cloud  of  white  ; 

Her  thin,  pale  hand,  through  which  the  blue  veins  shone, 

In  all  their  windings  beautiful,  was  thrown 

Upon  the  crimson  drapery  of  her  bed, 

Like  a  frail  lily  among  roses  red. 

And  there  she  lay.  and  tossed  in  wild  unrest, 

And  clasped  her  weeping  sister  to  .her  breast, 

And  uttered  broken'^rds  of  prayer  and  love 

<• 
To  God  upon  his  mercy-seat  above. 

At  length  the  glories  of  the  sunset  sky 
Stole  through  the  window  to  her  wandering  eye, 
And,  as  her  gaze  was  fixed  intensely  there, 
She  seemed  to  see  a  spirit  in  the  air. 
Half-rising  on  her  couch,  with  sudden  start, 
She  strove  to  clasp  the  vision  to  her  heart, 


THE    DYING    G*IRL.  15 

And  with  a  feeble  cry  of  ecstasy, 

"  Oh  !  mother,  stay,  I  come,  I  .come  to  thee  ! 

Her  young  soul  passed,  her'dream  of  earth  was  o'er, 

Her  pulse  was  still,  her  heart  beat  nevermore. 

UNIONTOWN,  PA.,  July  11. 


fity  actors'  fast  gteelhtg. 

TT  was  a  calm,  still,  Sabbath  eve — no  breeze 

Went  o'er  the  sleeping  flowers,  no  murmured  sound, 
*From  Nature's  harp  of  many  voices,  rose 
Upon  the  deep  and  strange  serenity 
Of  the  lone  death  of  day.     The  Lovers  met 
In  the  sweet  silence  of  that  holy  eve, 
Once  more  upon  the  old,  familiar  spot 
Of  love's  dear  tryst.     Dark  months  had  passed  away 
Since  they  had  gazed  together  on  that  scene 
Of  deepest,  keenest  raptures.     That  young  girl, 
Even  in  her  girlhood's  ripening  flush,  seemed  old, 
And  worn  in  soul.     Her  pale  and  withering  cheek 
Told  to  the  heart  the  tale  of  many  a  wild, 
Fierce  struggle  of  a  spirit  unsubdued. 


•;  •'.•;••     !. OVER'S    LAST    MEETING.  17 

Her  dark  eyes  gleamed  with  the  intensity 

Of  strange,  unspoken  griefs,  and  in  their  calm, 

Mysterious  fixedness  there  seemed  a  high, 

And  deep,  and  stern  resolve,  as  though  her  heart 

Of  iron  pride  might  never  quail  beneath 

Life's  fiercest  storms.     Yet  when  she  turned  those  orbs 

To  his,  a  gentle,  melancholy  smile 

Played  round  their  lids,  and  quivering  tear-drops  hung, 

Like  the  bright  gems  of  dewy  morning,  o'er 

Their  dark  and  stormy  depths. 

And  he  on  whom 

Her  glance  of  love  fell,  piercing  his  deep  soul. 
His  soul  of  strong  and  manly  daring,  stood 
All  tearfully  beside  her,  and  his  arm 
Around  her  slender  form  was  wildly  flung, 
Love's  living,  burning  cestus;  and  her  head, 
With  all  its  clustering  wealth  of  raven  curls, 
Drooped  to  his  heaving  bosom,  as  a  dove, 
Weary  and  broken  wing'd,  sinks  to  its  own 
Dear  parent  nest.     Her  little  trembling  hand 


18  THE    LOVERS'    LAST    MEETING. 

Was  clasped  within  his  own,  her  upturned  eye 
Met  his,  and  drank  again  the  heavenly  bliss 
Of  dear  and  sweet  reunion.     On  each  pale 
And  stricken  brow  the  darkness  of  a  deep 
And  solemn  shadow  rested,  and  each  cheek 
And  lip  seemed  chilled  with  sorrow's  withering  frost. 
Though  summer,  autumn,  winter,  spring  had  passed 
Again  and  yet  again  since  they  had  met, 
They  gazed  into  each  other's  hearts  and  read 
No  change  in  those  deep  founts  of  burning  love. 
There  no  dark  raven-wing  had  brooded — each 
Had  e'er  embalmed  with  love's  pure  incense-breath 
The  image  of  the  other.     They  had  vowed 
And  kept  their  holy  truth,  and  now  their  love 
Was  all  undimed,  though  grief  had  almost  crushed 
The  life  from  out  their  souls. 

The  sweet  rich  glow 
Of  the  soft  twilight  lent  its  passion-hue 
Of  crimson  to  her  temples,  or  perchance 
It  may  have  been  the  deep  reflection  caught 
From  the  wild  burning  thoughts  that  raged  within 


THE    LOVERS'    LAST    MEETING.  19 

Her  shut  and  silent  heart.     She  did  not  look 
Upon  the  many  flowers,  she  did  not  hear 
The  music  of  the  stream— the  fairy  tints 
Of  sunset,  the  green  surging  of  the  woods, 
The  mildly-wooing  zephyrs,  and  the  tones, 
The  thousand  deep  tones  of  the  holy  hour, 
All  were  unheeded  then.     Her  eyes,  her  ears, 
Her  thoughts,  her  soul,  her  life,  were  but  for  him. 
She  leaned  upon  him  with  that  touching  trust 
And  holy  confidence  a  saint  would  feel 
In  leaning  upon  heaven.     And  she  to  him 
Was  all  that  mortal  creature  e'er  could  be 
To  a  proud  child  of  earth.     With  lip  to  lip, 
And  heart  quick-throbbing  to  its  throbbing  mate, 
They  stood  in  love's  bewildering  embrace, 
Silently  clasping  in  their  straining  arms 
All  that  they  knew  of  heaven  on  earth.     And  then 
They  heeded  not  the  passing  of  the  hours, 
They  saw  not  sunset's  glorious  roses  fade 
Within  the  west's  sky-garden,  they  but  felt 
They  loved  and  were  supremely  blest. 


20  THE    LOVERS'    LAST   MEETING 

At  length 

The  thought  that  they  must  part  stole  on  their  souls 
Like  the  deep  shadow  of  a  thunder-cloud. 
She  strove  to  drive  that  fearful  thought  away, 
But  there  it  stood,  a  fiend  between  her  soul 
And  her  bright  heaven  of  joy.     Beneath  the  weight 
Of  her  great  grief,  her  head  sank  down,  as  bends 
The  lily's  pale  and  broken  cup  beneath 
The  torrents  of  the  cloud.     And  then  with  low, 
Sweet  tones  of  tenderness,  though  his  own  heart 
Was  bursting  with  its  stifled  rush  of  tears, 
He  soothed  her  fearful  agony.     He  spoke 
Of  joys  and  raptures  past  but  treasured  still 
In  memory's  sacred  chambers,  of  the  hope 
That  even  then  seemed  shining  with  a  dim 
And  pale  but  beauteous  gleam  upon  the  waves 
Of  the  far  distant  future.     Thus  he  won 
Her  spirit  from  its  dark  and  crushing  grief, 
And  bade  her  turn  her  thoughts  from  earth,  and  look 
Above  life's  clouds  ftr  perfect  happiness 
Within  the  skies.     He  told  her  how  they  two 


THE    LOVERS'    LAST    MEETING. 

Would  wander  there,  twin-spirits,  hand  in  hand, 
Beside  the  lovely  Eden  streams  that  glass 
The  blessed  rainbow  skies,  how  they  would  cullT 
The  sweetest  blossoms  glowing  with  the  dews 
Of  heaven,  and  twine  them  into  beauteous  wreaths, 
Dear  love-wreaths,  for  each  other's  foreheads ;  how 
They  oft  would  fly  upon  their  spirit-wings 
From  star  to  star,  to  read  the  beautiful 

And  blazing  mysteries  of  the  sky,  and  how 

• 
They  would  at  times  come  doAvn  from  heaven  to  earth 

To  sit  beside  each  other  on  the  denr 
And  blessed  spot  where  then  they  sat;  and  muse 
On  all  the  raptures  shared  together  there, 
And  breathe  again  the  vows  so  often  breathed 
In  life  from  their  deep  hearts  of  love,  and  make 
That  scene  the  tryst  of  their  pure  souls  in  heaven 
As  'twas  their  tryst  upon  the  earth. 


But  though 
By  soft  and  low  and  gentle  words  like  these, 


22  THE    LOVERS'     LAST    MEETING. 

Breathed  in  the  rich  tones  that  first  won  her  love, 

He  calmed  the  fiery  lavarflood  that  raged 

Within  her  tortured  heart,  he  could  not  soothe 

The  agony  that  burned  within  his  own. 

His  soul  was  strong  and  haughty.     He  could  bear 

The  cold  world's  bitter  hate,  he  faltered  not 

At  "  foaming  calumny,"  he  did  not  heed 

The  piercing  blasts  of  poverty,  but  when, 

At  that  sad  hour,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  her, 

His  bright  though  fading  flower,  and  thought  how  she 

Would  pine  in  his  drear  absence  from  her  side, 

And  saw  that  her  young  morning-tide  of  life 

Was  ebbing  fast  away,  Oh  then  his  heart, 

His  high,  proud  heart,  sank  in  his  manly  breast, 

His  haughty  spirit  trembled,  and  a  strong 

Convulsion  shook  his  features,  and  the  drops 

Of  agony  welled  upward  from  a  fount 

Long  sealed  within  his  bosom,  and  he  wept 

As  if  his  heart  were  broken.     And  her  tears 

Gushed  forth  to  blend  with  his,  and  thus  they  wept 

Together  long  and  wildly. 


THE    LOVERS'    LAST    MEETING.  23 

On  their  ears 

Now  stole  tlie  deep  tones  of  the  vesper  bell, 
As  mournfully  as  if  it  had  been  tolled 
For  some  dear  friend.     It  woke  them  from  their  trance 
Of  paralyzing  grief,  it  pealed  and  rang 
Far  through  the  echoing  chambers  of  their  souls, 
And  told  them  with  its  mocking  cadences 
That  'twas  the  hour,  the  moment,  they  must  part. 
All  silently,  but  for  one  death-like  groan, 
He  strained  her  to  Ms  bosom,  on  her  brow 
He  breathed  his  passion-kisses  till  it  seemed 
As  if  each  trembling  blood-drop  in  her  frame 
Rushed  up  to  share  the  maddening  embrace — 
Then  with  one  low,  deep,  passionate  farewell, 
That  sounded  as  if  uttered  by  his  soul 
Through  still,  unbreathing  lips,  they  parted. 

She, 

Pale,  faint,  and  weak,  with  faltering  footsteps  sought 
Her  chamber's  silent  solitude,  to  pour 
Her  sad  soul  forth  in  earnest  prayer  to  God 


24  THE    LOVERS'     LAST    MEETING. 

For  strength  to  quell  the  fierce,  rebellious  thoughts 
That  seemed  for  ever  sweeping  like  a  tide 
Of  burning  waters  o'er  her  heart.     He  sought 
The  forest's  deeper  silence,  there  to  hold 
Through  the  still  night  communion  with  his  soul, 
And  her,  and  heaven  ;  and,  when  the  morning  came, 
He  went  with  sickening  heart  and  aching  brow 
Once  more  into  the  toiling  world  of  men, 
To  struggle  with  his  bitter  destiny. 

'Twas  their  last  parting — a  brief  year  passed  by, 
And  lo  !  a  pitying  angel  came  from  Heaven 
And  joined  their  fates  forever.     'Twas  the  kind 
Death-angel — they  are  all  each  other's  now. 


f 00k  an&  fist,  fate. 

T  1ST,  love,  oh  listen  as  the  breeze 

-*-*  Goes  softly  floating  by, 

And  to  thine  ear  'twill  sweetly  breathe 

My  young  heart's  tenderest  sigh  ; 
And  if  that  breeze  hath  passed  o'er  crushed 

And  withered  flowers,  'twill  tell, 
In  saddened  cadence,  of  the  griefs 

That  in  my  bosom  dwell. 

List,  love. 

List  to  the  music  of  the  stream, 

The  far-off  waterfall, 
And  in  its  low  tones  thou  wilt  hear 

My  spirit's  earnest  call 
2 


26  LOOK    AND    LIST,    LOVE. 

To  thine,  to  meet  me  at  the  soft 
And  blessed  twilight  hour, 

Where  we  so  oft  have  loved  to  meet 
In  our  own  wildwood  bower. 
List,  love. 


Look  on  the  glorious  hues  that  wave 

Along  the  sunset  sky, 
Like  heavenly  banners  o'er  the  hosts 

Of  angels  trooping  by, 
And  thou  wilt  see  my  spirit  there 

Soft  beckoning  unto  thine, 
To  join  me  in  that  fairy  realm, 

And  be  for  ever  mine. 

Look,  love. 


Look  on  the  cloudless  heavens  that  roll 

So  beautiful  and  fair, 
And  think  of  all  our  earnest  vows 

That  have  their  record  there. 


LOOK    AND    LIST,     LOVE.  27 

And  see  !  the  priest  of  Nature  now 

Seems  bending  from  above, 
With  his  own  gentle  hand  to  set 

The  signet  of  our  love. 

Look,  love. 

List  to  the  murmurs  sweet  and  wild 

That  from  the  ocean  swell, 
Like  the  mysterious  melodies 

Heard  in  its  music-shell ; 
And  they  will  speak  of  memories 

That  in  our  bosoms  sleep, 
Unseen  and  beautiful,  like  pearls 

Within  the  sea's  blue  deep. 
List,  love. 

List  to  the  spirit-minstrelsy 

That  steals  from  yon  bright  stars, 
As  in  their  watch  of  love  they  float 

High  on  their  golden  cars ; 


28  LOOK    AND    LIST,    LOVE. 

And  they  will  tell  thee  that  the  love 
To  our  young  spirits  given, 

Like  theirs,  shines  sweetly  on  the  earth 
But  has  its  home  in  heaven. 
List,  love. 


Look,  at  our  own  dear  hour  of  tryst, 

Upon  the  passion-flower, 
I  culled  and  laid  upon  thy  heart 

In  our  own  favorite  bower ; 
And  if  thou  lov'st  me  dearly  still, 

Thy  gentle  eye  will  trace 
The  blessed  story  of  our  loves 

Upon  its  pale,  sweet  face. 

Look,  love. 

Oh  !  look  and  listen  at  the  calm 

And  holy  midnight  hour, 
When  love's  deep  charm  o'er  human  souls 

Hath  strong  and  mystic  power; 


LOOK    AND    LIST,    LOVE. 

And  thou  wilt  see  my  spirit  stand 

Beside  thee  where  thou  art, 
And  hear  it  breathe  love's  burning  words 

Into  thine  ear  and  heart. 

Look  and  list,  love. 


LOUISVILLE,  KY.,  1852. 


0f 


A  NOTHER  and  another  !     'Tis  the  still 

And  solemn  hour  of  midnight.     Not  a  sound 
Of  mortal  life  disturbs  the  awful  calm 
That  rests  upon  the  dim  and  sleeping  earth. 
'Twould  seem  as  if  a  wizard  spell  were  laid 
Upon  the  winds,  the  woods,  the  waves,  the  streams  ; 
For  all  the  thousand  voices  that  are  Avont, 
In  this  deep  hour  of  darkness  and  of  dreams, 
To  weave  their  low,  mysterious  cadences 
In  one  wild  chant  of  spirit-melody, 
Are  silent  now,  and  there  is  naught  to  tell 
The  ear  that  Nature  lives.     The  holy  stars, 
The  watchers  of  the  night,  are  burning  faint, 
Like  funeral  lamps  ;  the  dark  cloud-shadows  rest 


THE    CLOSE    OF    THE    YEAR. 

Upon  the  still  earth  like  a  pall ;  the  hills 

And  mountains  stand  like  mourners  ;  the  tall  trees, 

Leafless  and  solemn,  bend  their  tops  like  plumes 

Above  the  bier  ;  and  lo  !  a  countless  throng 

Of  wan  and  ghastly  phantoms  seem  to  come 

From  the  dim  realm  of  shadows,  to  corivey 

The  Old  Year  to  his  burial. 


He  is  gone  ! 

He  breathed  no  sigh  or  groan  in  his  death-hour, 
But  with  the  awful  stillness  of  a  dream, 
Passed  to  the  mystic  realm  where  dwell  the  shades 
Of  years  that  passed  before  him.     One  more  wave, 
Bright  with  our  smiles  and  bitter  with  our  tears, 
A  wave  that  has  reflected  star  and  cloud, 
The  blue  sky  and  the  tempest's  wrath,  is  lost 
In  the  great  ocean  of  Eternity, 
Whose  dark  and  dread  and  shoreless  waters  hide 
The  wrecks  of  empires  and  the  wrecks  of  worlds 
From  every  eye  but  God's. 


2  THE    CLOSE    OF    THE    YEAR. 

All !  gazing  back 

Upon  the  parted  year,  we  darkly  mourn 
Its  rich  and  wasted  treasures.     We  recall, 
With  keen  remorse,  life's  follies  and  its  crimes, 
And  tears  are  swelling  in  our  stricken  hearts — 
Vain  tears,  alas  how  vain  !     And  see  !  beside 
The  shadowy  spectre  of  the  silent  Past, 
A  sad  and  sorrowing  Angel  seems  to  stand, 
Who,  in  a  tone  as  mournful  as  the  cry 
Of  a  lost  soul,  rebukes  us  for  our  deeds 
Of  error,  and  implores  us  to  be  true 
To  earth  and  Heaven  in  all  the  coming  time 
That  may  be  ours  beneath  the  skies. 

Here,  here, 

At  one  year's  burial  and  another's  birth, 
Here,  on  this  narrow  isthmus  in  the  sea, 
Time's  ever  surging  sea,  oh  let  us  pause 
And  deeply  muse  upon  the  two  vast  worlds, 
Spread  out  on  either  hand  before  our  eyes, 
The  Past  and  Future.     From  this  lonely  height, 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR.        33 

Straining  our  gaze  far  backward  o'er  the  plain 
That  we  have  swiftly  traversed,  we  behold, 
All  thickly  scattered  o'er  the  dreary  space, 
Unnumbered  mounds,  which  mark  the  graves  of  joys, 
And  loves,  and  hopes  that  thronged  around  our  path, 
To  charm  our  eyes  and  win  our  happy  hearts 
By  their  sweet  smiles  and  wild  enchanting  tones, 
And  then  sank  down  to  mingle  with  the  dust, 
Like  exhalations  of  the  morning.     We 
Look  earnestly  upon  the  fairy  vales, 
Where,  in  life's  spring-time  hours,  we  lingered  long 
To  gather  garlands  of  sweet  flowers  to  deck 
The  heart's  own  altars — but  no  flowers  are  there. 
The  Autumn  winds  and  Winter  tempests  swept 
Above  their  blooming  loveliness,  and  they 
Perished  in  their  bright  beauty,  and  their  souls 
Of  perfume  passed  to  Heaven.     With  wearied  eyes, 
And  sad  and  aching  hearts,  we  turn  away 
From  the  lone  desolations  of  the  past, 
To  gaze  upon  Futurity,  and  there, 
Through  the  long  vista  of  the  years,  we  see, 

•>* 


34  THE    CLOSE    OF    THE    YEAR. 

With  fancy's  eye,  rich  vales,  as  beautiful 

As  those  through  which  in  childhood's  hours  we  roved  ; 

And  there,  joys,  hopes,  and  loves,  as  fresh  and  bright 

As  those  which  sprang  and  perished  by  our  side, 

Seem  flitting  in  the  distance,  wild  and  free, 

And  sweetly  beckoning  us  to  where  they  dwell, 

Like  a  young  troop  of  Fairies. 

A  New  Year, 

A  new,  unsullied  year,  is  ours.     Its  page 
Is  .sealed  ;  we  know  not  what  is  folded  there  ; 
We  know  not  whether  joy  or  agony, 
We  know  not  whether  life  or  death,  is  writ 
Within  the  fearful  scroll,  but  'tis  enough 
To  know  the  gift  is  God's.     Within  our  breasts, 
Amid  love's  blasted  buds,  joy's  faded  wreaths, 
And  hope's  pale,  withered  garlands,  one  bright  flower 
Is  still  uncrushed,  undimmed,  the  holy  flower    ' 
Of  Faith  divine.     We  feel,  we  know  that  He, 
Who  hath  preserved  us  'mid  the  thousand  ills, 
The  countless  dangers  lurking  in  our  paths, 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR.         35 

Still  holds  us  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand, 
And  bids  us  trust  in  Him. 

Farewell,  Old  Year ! 

May  we,  when  called,  like  thee,  from  earth  away, 
Obey,  like  thee,  the  summons,  calm,  serene. 
Without  one  sigh,  or  groan,  or  wild  heart-throb 
To  mark  the  moment  of  dissolving  life. 
And  oh  may  we,  within  the  Eden  land, 
Where  angel  wings  are  glancing  through  the  air, 
And  seraph  songs  are  poured  from  rainbow  clouds, 
Once  more  embrace  the  loved  and  lost  whom  thou 
Hast  taken  from  us  in  thy  silent  flight. 


A  S  here  I  sit  within  my  lonely  room, 
-*-^-  A  spirit  seems  abroad  upon  the  air, 
That  o'er  me  flings  an  influence  mild  and  sweet, 
Yet  mournful  and  mysterious.     It  is  soft, 
And  calm,  and  hallowed,  yet  so  very  sad, 
That  tears  are  on  my  eyelids.     It  unlocks 
Memory's  pale  urn,  and  to  my  soul  reveals 
Treasures  long  hidden  in  its  depths.     It  calls 
Forth,  from  their,  cold  and  silent  graves,  the  forms 
Of  dearly  loved  one's  faded  long  ago. 
They  seem  to  live  again  ;  they  move  once -more 
Beside  me  as  they  moved  in  life ;  they  breathe 
Sweet  accents  in  my  ear ;  they  rise  from  earth 
On  angel  plumes,  and  gently  beckon  me 


MOONLIGHT.  37 

Through  the  soft,  silvery  mists  that  float  around, 
To  follow  them  upon  their  long 
And  shining  trail  of  glory. 

'Tis  a  strange 

But  pure  and  blessed  spirit,  for  each  thought 
It  makes  is  pure  and  blessed.     Every  dream 
It  brings  is  soft,  and  deep,  and  beautiful 
As  'twere  an  Eden  vision.     And,  oh,  see ! 
A  pale,  unearthly  light  is  in  the  air, 
Chastening  the  shadows  that  dance  fitfully 
Along  the  silent  walls  ;  and  now  I  feel 
My  cheek  and  brow  are  hallowed  by  its  pure 
And  radiant  baptism. 

'":'••• 

Ah,  it  is  the  sweet 

Soft  spirit  of  the  Moonlight.     'Tis  the  gleam 
Of  yonder  "  Queen  of  mysteries,"  wandering  forth 
Like  a  pale  nun  in  heaven.     Lone-musing  here 
Amid  the  shadows  of  my  curtained  room, 
I  saw  it  not,  but  yet  I  felt  its  spell 


g  MOONLIGHT. 

Steal  through  the  air  and  sink  into  my  soul, 

As  with  an  angel  power.     And  lo !  as  now 

I  gaze  out  from  my  window  on  the  earth, 

How  softly  and  how  beautifully  beams 

The  moonlight  over  nature.     The  young  leaves 

Turn  up  their  edges  to  its  silver  glow, 

And  quiver  with  their  rapture.     The  blue  isles, 

The  streams,  the  hills,  the  forests  and  the  clouds 

Seem  things  of  fairy-land,  for  beauty  floats 

Like  a  wild  dream  around  them.     Gentle  moon  ! 

Pale,  lonely  mistress  of  the  solemn  night ! 

The  tides  of  my  young  bosom  heave  and  swell, 

Even  as  the  tides  of  ocean,  to  thy  strong 

Mysterious  power !     Oh !  fill  my  breast  with  light 

From  thy  high  sun,  and  touch  each  shadowy  thought, 

Each  dark  and  gloomy  fancy  of  my  heart, 

With  thy  unclouded  beams. 

There  is  a  pure 

Sweet  moonlight  of  the  soul,  that  from  the  sky 
Shines  on  our  earthly  spirits,  silvering  o'er 


MOONLIGHT.  39 


Each  depth  of  doubt,  and  sin,  and  agony 
With  the  celestial  beauty  of  its  beams, 
And  bidding  every  shadow  melt  away ; 
RELIGION  is  THAT  brightener  of  the  soul, 
And  life's  dark  waters  glowing  in  its  light, 
Mirror  the  wondrous  glories  of  the  heavens. 

LOUISVILLE,  MAKCH  15. 


f  0  Sir  tffctoarfr  goiter  f  gton,  gart. 

MY  cousin,  I  have  never  seen  thee — yet 
From  childhood's  early  years  my  dearest  thought 
'Have  been  so  full  of  thee,  I  almost  seem 
To  know  thee  well.     From  thy  high  soul,  my  soul 
Has  caught  its  inspiration.     I  have  felt 
My  spirit  rise  exulting  with  thine  own, 
To  share  the  blessed  sunbeam  and  the  breeze. 
But  when,  in  thy  proud  majesty  of  strength, 
Thou  hast  sprung  upward  to  the  skies  to  ride 
At  will  on  passion's  maddening  storm  of  fire, 
My  young  heart,  faint  and  weak  with  its  excess 
Of  voiceless  adoration,  has  sunk  down 


TO    SIR    EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON.  41 

Before  thee,  its  deep  pride,  its  strength,  its  life, 
All,  all  forgotten  in  its  silent  awe 
Toward  a  bright  being  of  the  earth  so  high,    - 
And  glorious,  and  grand. 

Oh  I  have  thought 

As  o'er  thy  bright  and  burning  page  my  heart 
Wrapt  in  wild  flame,  has  poured  its  mightiest  love, 
How  like  a  demi-god  thou  art,  thou  proud 
And  sceptred  monarch  of  the  realm  of  mind  ! 
The  human  soul,  with  all  its  mystic  chords 
Of  joy  and  woe,  and  hope  and  holy  love, 
Is  thine  own  instrument,  from  which  thy  hand 
Awakens  tones  whose  echoes  will  be  heard 
Through  all  the  coming  years,  far  sounding  o'er 
The  ocean  of  the  future  ages. 

Thou 

Art  a  magician  of  strange  power ;  thou  canst 
Draw  healing  sweets  from  poisons  ;  thou  canst  make 
The  darkest,  deadliest  passions  wear  the  hues 


42  TO    SIR    EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTOtf. 

Of  beauty  and  religion  ;  all  things,  glassed 

Within  thy  fancy's  mirror-wave,  assume 

The  holy  tints  of  heaven.     With  wizard  spell 

Thou  stirrest  the  deep  fountains  of  my  life 

Until  I  worship  thee,  and  feel  myself 

Exalted  by  such  worship.     Thou  dost  stand 

Upon  thy  own  high  pyramid  of  mind, 

As  on  some  lofty  mountain-height,  and  wave 

Thy  mighty  wand,  and  myriads  of  bright 

And  fearful  shapes,  all  things  of  heaven  and  earth, 

Come  thronging  on  the  wild,  careering  winds, 

The  vassals  of  thy  bidding. 

Cousin,  I 

Have  deemed  that,  like  the  brave  old  Titan,  thou 
Hast  stolen  fire  from  heaven  wherewith  to  warm 
The  frozen  world  of  thought,  but  thou  Avilt  not, 
Like  him.  be  destined  to  the  chain,  the  rock, 
And  the  fierce  vulture  at  the  heart,  for  Jove, 
The  Tyrant,  rules  no  more  in  heaven,  and  God 
Is  justice,  love,  and  mercy. 


TO    SIR    EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON.  43 

Cousin,  thou 

Hast  said  thou  lovest  me,  and  in  that  love 
My  bosom  proud  feels  all  the  rapturous  joy 
E'er  dreamed  of  on  the  earth.     We  have  not  met, 
And  I  could  pray  that  we  might  never  meet. 
For  stern  reality  hath  cruel  power 
To  cheat  bright  fancy  of  her  thousand  spells. 
To  thee  I  would  be  ever  as  a  thing 
Of  youth  and  love,  which,  though  from  thee  afar, 
Is  still  a  part  of  thee.     Oh  let  the  light, 
The  love-light  of  these  tearful  eyes  of  mine, 
Shine  on  thee  in  the  beam  of  some  pure  star ; 
Let  my  low  voice  steal  o'er  thee  in  the  sound 
Of  melancholy  winds  through  midnight  rains  ; 
Let  the  soft,  dewy  pinions  of  the  breeze, 
As,  laden  with  the  perfume  of  the  flowers, 
It  comes  to  fan  thy  forehead,  bear  to  thee 
A  kiss  from  my  young  spirit ;  let  me  be 
As  a  soft,  blessed  tone  of  melody 
To  stir  with  gentleness  the  passion-depths 
Of  thy  great  soul ;  and  when  on  some  lone  eve 


44  TO    SIR    EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON. 

I  send,  as  now,  my  spirit  to  commune 
With  thine,  oh  give  it  one  sweet,  dewy  flower 
From  out  the  rich  rose-garden  of  thy  soul, 
One  little  diamond  from  thy  priceless  mine 
Of  bright  and  glorious  thought,  one  gentle  sigh 
From  thy  deep  spirit,  mournful  with  the  wild 
Excess  of  dreaming  passion  far  too  rich 
To  find  its  proper  guerdon  in  a  cold, 
Unfeeling  world  like  this. 

Oh  cousin  mine, 

\ 

Thou  art  my  deep  idolatry.     I've  dreamed 

Oft  of  the  glory  of  our  ancient  race 

Which  lives  again  in  thee.     I've  deemed  the  pride, 

Which  in  the  great  Llewellyn  dimly  shone, 

In  thee  all  perfected.     I've  sat  and  mused 

On  thee  with  blissful  tears,  until  my  soul 

Has  from  thy  fancy's  glorious  well-spring  drawn 

Visions  of  love  and  immortality. 

In  musings  I  have  ofttimes  stood  with  thee 

In  ancient  Knebworth,  and  with  thee  have  strayed 


TO    SIR    EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON.  45 

Through  its  time-honored  shades,  while  thy  rich  tones 
Have  thrilled  my  spirit's  lyre,  and  wakened  thoughts 
To  sleep  no  more  for  ever. 

Cousin  dear, 

This  humble  wreath  that  here  I  send  to  thee 
Is  woven  of  my  spirit's  bleeding  flowers.    '  „ 
Oh  do  not  scorn  the  chaplet,  for  'tis  fresh, 
And  pure,  and  softly  glowing  with  the  heart's 
First  morning  dews.     My  cousin,  fare  thee  well. 


le  &*****. 


TTvEAR.  lovely  girl,  my  thoughts  are  thine  in  this  sweet 

twilight  hour, 
The  young,  the  hright,  the  beautiful,  gone  like  a  stricken 

flower  ; 

A  thousand  holy  memories  are  rushing  o'er  my  heart, 
And  there  thine  image  seems  once  more  to  life  and  love  to 

start  ; 

I  see  thy  dark  and  clustering  curls  around  thy  gentle  face, 
Thy  soft  black  eye,  thy  rosy  lip,  and  all  thy  witching  grace, 
And  hear  the  cadence  of  thy  voice  come  sweetly  stealing  by, 
Like  music  from  some  fairy  fount  beneath  the  moonlight 

sky. 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MISS    C*       **.  47 

Oli  couldst  thou,  sweet  and  gentle  girl,  on  earth  no  longer 

dwell? 
Had  thy  dear  mother's  love  no  power  to  hold  thee  with  its 

spell? 
Had  thy  sweet  sister's  pleading  voice  no  tone  to  keep  thee 

here? 
Had  life  no  charm  to  make  thy  home  than  paradise  more 

dear? 

Ah  no,  the  bright,  the  angel  band  bent  gently  from  the  sky, 
And  wooed  and  won  thee  to  their  home,  their  own  blest  home 

on  high. 

And  there,  beneath  the  holy  shade  of  myriad  starry  wings, 
Thou  wanderest  'mid  the  living  flowers  of  heaven's  own  liv- 
ing springs, 

To  hear  the  lofty  music  tones,  the  hymns  of  rolling  spheres, 
Blend  with  thy  own  soul  melodies  through  God's  eternal 

years. 
But  oh  !  does  deeper,  tenderer  love  in  those  high  realms 

have  birth, 
Than  that  which  lives  and  throbs  and  weeps  in  human  hearts 

on  earth  ? 


48  ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MISS    C*****. 

The  thousand  blossoms  that  have  died  beneath  the  Autumn 

blast, 
Will  bloom  in  future  Springs  as  bright  as  in  the  Springs  long 

past ; 

The  rose  and  violet  will  lift  their  cups  of  white  and  blue, 
As  erst  at  morn  and  mournful  eve  to  catch  the  falling  dew ; 
The  bright  wing'd  birds  will  pour  their  songs  of  love  from 

every  tree, 
The  bright  young  streams  with  ringing  shout  leap  onward  to 

the  sea ; 

But  naught  of  these  can  ever  pierce  the  cold  and  silent  shade, 
Where,  with  thine  arms  upon  thy  breast,  thy  lovely  form  is 

laid. 

Yet  come  to  us,  dear  Nannie,  come,  in  this  soft,  stilly  hour, 
And  tell  us  of  thy  happy  home  in  Heaven's  immortal  bower  ; 
I  know  that  thou  art  there,  for  all  thy  thoughts  beneath  the 


Were  beauteous  as  an  Angel's  dream  asleep  in  Paradise. 
And,  oh  I  ask  that  when  thy  hymns  of  ecstasy  ascend, 
Thoul't  breathe  one  deep  and  holy  prayer  for  thy  poor,  erring 
friend, 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MISS    C****».  49 

Who  still,  with  weary  step  must  tread,  in  loneliness  and 

gloom, 
Uncheered  by  flower  or  blessed  star,  her  pathway  to  the 

tomb. 


TT  was  a  cold  and  bitter  winter  night. 

•*•  The  keen  winds  howled  around  like  beasts  of  prey 

Seeking  for  victims.     A  white  shroud  of  snow 

Covered  the  desolate  and  lonely  moor 

On  which  a  cottage  stood.     A  single  lamp 

Shone  through  the  window,  shedding  faintly  round 

A  melancholy  light.     Within  those  walls 

Dwelt  the  lone  Hermit  of  the  moor,  and  now 

Upon  the  hard  and  stony  floor  he  knelt 

In  fervent  prayer  to  Heaven. 

Beside  him  lay 

The  rosary,  the  missal,  and  the  scourge  ; 
No  fire  was  on  his  cold  and  cheerless  hearth ; 


THE    HERMIT.  5 

The  bread  and  water  on  his  table  stood 

Untasted  ;  his  thin,  bloodless  hands  were  clasped 

Upon  his  breast ;  his  blue,  beseeching  eye, 

Tearless  as  if  its  orb  were  seared  with  flame, 

Looked  earnestly  to  Heaven  ;  the  corded  veins, 

That  lay  upon  his  brow  and  temples  pale,       • 

Throbbed  visibly  as  if  a  living  fire 

Were  burning  in  their  currents  ;  his  thin  lip, 

Of  ashen  hue,  was  quivering  ;  purple  drops 

Were  on  his  naked  shoulders,  and  his  frame 

Still  writhed  and  trembled  from  the  blood-stained  lash 

Of  his  fierce  penance  ;  and,  as  there  he  turned 

Upward  his  suffering  face  to  Heaven,  his  words 

Of  penitence  and  supplication  seemed 

To  steal  up  from  the  caverns  of  his  soul 

Like  moans  of  keenest  agony. 

That  night 

The  hermit  passed  in  meditation,  prayer, 
And  fierce  and  bitter  penance  for  the  sins 
Of  early  youth.     But  HER  dear  image  still, 


52  THE    HERMIT..      . 

The  image  of  the  sweet  and  gentle  one 
That  he  had  loved  so  passionately,  rose 
'Mid  all  his  maddening  tortures  and  his  prayers 
Between  him  and  his  God. 

The  hours  wore  on, 

And  when  at  length  the  first  gray  light  of  morn 
Dawned  in  the  orient  sky,  he  laid  his  chill 
And  trembling  form  upon  his  couch  to  check 
In  sleep  forbidden  memories.     In  vain  ! 
The  dear,  the  loved  one,  pale  and  beautiful, 
Came  softly  stealing  to  his  side  in  dreams, 
And  bent  above  him,  and  her  sweet  blue  eye 
Gazed  mournfully  in  his,  her  tender  lip 
Was  pressed  upon  his  forehead,  and  her  voice, 
In  tones  of  more  than  earthly  melody, 
Was  wildly  breathing  in  his  ear  again 
Love's  unforgotten  words. 

The  sun  arose, 
And  then  the  hermit's  sleep  was  dreamless  ;  bright 


THE    HERMIT.  53 

The  beam  lay  on  the  rigid  brow  of  death. 
But  on  his  breast,  beneath  the  sackcloth  robe, 
Was  found  the  picture  of  his  early  love 
Pressed  o'er  his  throbless  heart.     They  buried  him 
Upon  that  dismal  moor,  and  \vhen  the  Spring 
Smiled  sweetly  on  the  earth,  a  stranger  came, 
A  gentle  lady,  deeply  bowed  with  grief, 
And  planted  flowers  upon  his  lonely  grave  ! 

LOUISVILLE,  KT. 


®0  mg  Sister. 

WEET  sister,  thou  art  very  beautiful, 
Thy  wild  and  dark  eye-flashes,  burns  and  glows 
With  glorious  spirit-lustre,  and  a  spell 
Of  deep  and  holy  witchery  looks  out 
From  its  clear  depths  in  many  a  glance  of  love, 
A  fervid  glance  of  love  and  loveliness. 
Thy  pale,  pale  cheek,  o'er  which  the  faintest  blush 
Of  crimson  fades  out,  like  the  passion-breath 
Of  sunset  o'er  a  snowy  cloud ;  thy  pure 
High  brow,  so  beautiful,  and  eloquent, 
With  the  proud  majesty  of  lofty  thought ; 
The  waving  wealth  of  midnight  hair  that  floats 
Around  thy  forehead,  like  a  stormy  cloud 
Bound  a  white  monument ;  thy  parting  lips 


TO    MY    SISTER.  55 

So  red,  so  rich,  so  like  the  opening  rose 

While  yet  the  soft  and  early  dew-drop  blends 

With  its  wild  perfume  ;  thy  bewitching  smile 

Of  strange,  bright  beauty,  like  a  glance  just  caught 

From  the  closed  portals  of  the  Eden  clime ; 

Thy  form,  thy  seraph  form,  that  floats  and  glides 

Upon  the  earth  in  dreamlike  loveliness, 

As  'twere  the  very  spirit  of  a  strain 

Of  sweet  and  wild  .ZEolian  melody 

Made  visible  to  mortal  *eyes  ;  thy  soft 

And  gentle  voice,  that  through  my  spirit  sends 

Its  thrill,  like  low  and  mournful  music  heard 

O'er  the  still  waters  of  the  midnight  deep — 

All  these  seem  stealing  on  my  eye  and  ear, 

And  lingering  with  me  in  my  lonely  hours, 

To  fashion  blessed  dreams  of  thee  and  heaven 

Within  my  glowing  soul. 

Thou,  sister  dear, 

Art  on  the  earth,  not  of  it.     Thy  pure  wing 
Is  here  chained  back  from  thy  own  native  heaven. 


56  TO    MY    SISTER. 

Thou  art  a  gentle  angel  that  my  God 

Hath  sent  to 'soften,  purify,  and  soothe 

My  soul  of  fierce  unrest.     To  me  thy  love 

Is  the  bright  bow  that  spans  life's  darkest  storm, 

An  angel  bending  from  the  tempest-cloud. 

We  two  have  wept  o'er  our  dear  mother's  grave, 

Together  we  have  bowed  our  heads  and  prayed 

For  strength  from  Heaven  to  shield  us  from  the  stern 

Deep  agonies  of  life.     Our  mother  sleeps 

Afar,  and  we,  the  children  of  her  love, 

Are  left  to  buffet  life's  dark  waves  alone. 

No,  not  alone,  for  at  the  solemn  hour 

Of  holy  midnight,  on  the  moon's  pale  beams 

That  mother  seeks  her  loved  ones  on  the  earth, 

To  whisper  strength  and  comfort  to  their  hearts. 

Oh  then,  sweet  sister,  let  us  gird  ourselves 

For  life's  great  battle,  safe  beneath  her  wing 

From  every  pain  and  danger. 

Sister  mine  ! 
I've  marked  with  bitter,  bitter  agony 


TO    MY    SISTER.  57 

Thy  fast  decline — yet  ah  !  it  cannot  be 

That  them  wilt  leave  me  here  alone,  alone, 

Upon  the  cold  dull  earth.     Alas  !  I  fear 

Our  gentle  mother  would  not  come  to  me 

If  thou  wert  gone.     Oh  leave  me  not — the  dark 

Dread  thought  seems  writhing  in  my  burning  brain, 

Like  a  wild  scorpion  in  a  sea  of  flame, 

And  dreams  of  madness  curdle  my  heart's  blood, 

And  wake  the  gloomy  passions  slumbering  far 

Beneath  the  bright  stream  of  my  better  thoughts. 

Thou  wilt  stay  with  me — yes,  our  mother's  smile 

E'en  now  bids  me  be  calm,  and  lo  !  the  waves 

Of  maddening  fear  are  slowly  ebbing  back, 

To  Heaven's  own  music-tone  of  "  Peace  !  be  still !" 


ON    SEEING    HER    AS    JULIET. 

H,  thou  art  wondrous  fair  !     I  did  not  dream 
Thus  to  behold  the  fancy  of  the  great, 
Immortal  poet's  brain  made  palpable 
To  mortal  vision.     Mighty  Shakspeare's  self, 
Who  from  his  mind  of  myriad  glories  wrought 
This  creature  of  strange  beauty,  and  of  deep 
Strong  love,  might  well  be  proud  to  see  thee  take 
Her  form,  and  to  the  bright  ideal  give 
Life,  grace,  and  beauty  brighter  than  her  own. 
Oh  who  would  not  weep  gushing  tears  with  thee, 
Thou  lovely  being  with  a  heart  of  flame, 


TO    MISS    JULIA    DEAN.  59 

When  in  the  maddening  burst  of  thy  young  grief, 
Thy  own  dear  Romeo  from  thee  torn,  thy  arms 
Are  thrown  out  wildly  in  a  frantic  prayer 
For  his  return  !     And  when  upon  the  earth, 
In  passion's  stormiest  mood,  thy  form  is  flung 
In  utter,  hopeless,  crushing  agony, 
The  deep  and  mute  upheavings  of  thy  strong 
And  frenzied  soul  wring  drops  of  voiceless  grief 
From  hearts  unused  to  tears. 

The  mute  appeal 

Of  those  blue  orbs,  the  marble  fixedness 
Of  those  sweet  features  in  the  trance  of  grief, 
When  thou  art  left  by  all  thy  heart  holds  dear; 
Thy  face  so  radiant  in  its  loveliness, 
Yet  shadowed  by  the  griefs  that  darkly  lie 
Upon  the  broken  altar  of  the  heart ; 
Thy  music-cadences  when  in  the  strange, 
Deep  poetry  of  passion,  they  are  breathed* 
From  thy  young  lips — all  touch  the  soul  with  power 
Mysterious  and  resistless. 


60  TO    MISS    JULIA    DEAN. 

Lady  bright, 

And  beautiful,  to  thee  belongs  a  high 
And  glorious  mission.     The  great  heritage 
Of  genius  is  thine  own — the  boon  of  Heaven. 
To  the  wild,  airy  things  of  poetry, 
Its  spirit-visions,  its  ethereal  dreams, 
Its  mystic,  fairy-like  imaginings, 
Thou  givest  beauty  and  vitality, 
And  bidd'st   them   move,  and   speak,  and   smile,  and 

weep, 

Like  beings  of  our  earth,  and  they  will  live 
For  ever  in  our  glowing  souls  as  thou 
Dost  image  them. 

0  lady  dear,  the  pure 
And  gentle  beauty  of  thy  sweet  young  face 
Has  wakened  thoughts  and  feelings  in  my  soul, 
That  will  not,  cannot  perish  but  with  life. 
Thy  pure  white  brow,  serene  and  beautiful, 
And  calm  as  infant  sleep  ;  thy  floating  wealth 
Of  fleecy,  golden  hair :  thy  liquid  eyes, 


TO    MISS    JULIA    DEAN.   .  Q] 

Through  which  thy  thoughts  glow  ever,  as  the  stars 

Shine  through  the  soft,  blue  glories  of  the  sky  ;  - 

The  eloquent  rich  blood  that  proudly  mounts 

Up  to  thy  throbbing  temples,  and  imparts 

Its  tinge  to  "  the  white  wonder"  of  thy  brow ; 

Thy  ripe  red  lips,  where  honeyed  sweetness  seems 

To  hang ;  the  chiselled  outline  of  thy  light 

And  undulating  form,  and,  most  of  all, 

The  spirit  of  a  genius  that  beams  out 

From  every  lineament,  like  prisoned  flame 

Shining  through  some  bright  alabaster  vase — 

These,  these  are  deeply  imaged  in  my  heart, 

A  picture  holy,  beautiful  and  dear, 

That  will  not  pass  away  with  earth,  but  live 

Immortally  within  my  soul  in  heaven, 

A  portion  of  that  heaven's  own  purity 

And  angel  beauty. 

Lovely  lady,  thou 

Wilt  leave  us  soon  perchance  for  distant  climes, 
To  wake  the  loud  applause  of  stranger  lips, 


TO    MISS    JULIA    DEAN. 

And  win  a  deathless  garland  for  thy  brow, 
And  I  may  see  thee  never  more.     Oh  take 
With  thee  the  blessings  of  a  heart,  that  thou 
Hast  ofttimes  thrilled  to  ecstasy  and  tears. 


Starlight 


FT^HE  gentle  spirit  of  the  twilight  now 

-*-    Has  shut  his  rosy  wings,  and  I  have  come 

Out  in  the  sad,  sweet  starlight,  to  commune 

With  olden  visions,  soft  and  beautiful, 

Yet  fading  in  my  soul. 

*       Ye  lovely  stars  ! 
Bright,  holy  watchers  of  the  glorious  sky  ! 
Ye  gave  to  me  in  eves  of  other  years 
Your  gentle  sympathy  —  Oh  grant  it  still, 
For  now  'tis  dearer  to  the  orphan's  heart, 
Than  when  in  childhood's  happy  years  she  gazed 
Enchanted  on  your  lovely  light,  and  dreamed 
Had  she  but  wings,  that  she  could  rise  and  grasp 


64  STARLIGHT    MUSINGS. 

Your  shining  forms  and  twine  them  round  her  brow, 

A  band  of  glorious  jewels.     Now  she  comes 

Wiser,  but  oh,  less  happy,  bent  in  soul 

And  crushed  in  hope,  to  weep  her  griefs  away 

Beneath  your  pitying  beams.     Her  proud  soul  chafes 

And  struggles  in  its  earthly  pilgrimage  ; 

Her  weary  feet  and  panting  heart  would  rest 

To-night,  and  she  would  muse  on  dear  old  joys 

That  lent  their  glow,  their  spirit-thrilling  dreams, 

Their  wild,  ideal  spell  of  witchery, 

To  years  that  cannot  come  again,  and  scenes 

She  never  can  see  more. 

Nay,  now  her  heart 

Again  grows  young  and  gentle,  as  it  thrills 
Delightedly  beneath  your  beautiful 
And  holy  spell,  as  ocean  thrills  and  heaves 
To  the  young  moon  in  heaven.     Again  she  dreams, 
And  years  and  sorrows  vanish  from  her  life, 
And  leave  her  in  her  pure  and  innocent 
And  joyous  childhood.     Once  again  she  treads 


STARLIGHT    MUSINGS.  65 

Where  roses  bloom,  and  no  dark  serpent  coils 

Beneath  their  leaves  ;  again  she  looks  abroad 

O'er  nature,  with  a  soul  that  leaps  to  blend 

With  every  scene  and  sound  of  love  ;  again 

She  hears  the  well-remembered  tones  that  made 

The  music  of  her  life,  ere  yet  she  knew 

That  Death  was  in  the  world  ;  and  oh,  again 

Tears,  gentle  tears,  the  chastened  spirit's  dew, 

Are  overflowing  from  a  heart  whose  depths 

She  thought  were  turned  to  dust.     And  now  one  star, 

One  soft,  bright  star,  beams  on  her  eye  and  soul, 

On  which  she  used  to  gaze  in  ecstasy 

With  him,  the  idol  of  her  heart,  when  they 

Sat  hand  in  hand  on  glorious  eves  like  this, 

In  deep  and  voiceless  love,  their  souls  too  full 

Of  wild  and  beautiful  and  burning  dreams 

For  human  utterance.     Ah,  little  dreamed 

Their  hearts,  as  on  their  favorite  star  they  gazed, 

That  soon  its  beams  would  shine  alone  for  her, 

And  that  her  eyes  would  strain  through  gushing  teais 

To  search  its  glittering  orb,  and  see  if  'twere 

His  spirit's  dwelling-place. 


QQ  STARLIGHT    MUSINGS. 

Ye  glorious  stars  ! 

Ye  shone  like  blessed  spirits  of  the  sky 
On  Eden's  groves  and  fountains,  ere  the  pall 
Of  sin  had  fallen  there  ;  ye  shone  upon 
A  dark,  and  wild,  and  shoreless  world  of  waves, 
A  lone  and  billowy  desert,  when  the  ark 
That  held  all  mortal  breath  was  drifting  o'er 
The  mountain  tops  ;  ye  shone  on  Sinai's  tall 
And  awful  summit,  when  a  mortal  man 
Was  talking  face  to  face  with  God  ;  ye  shone 
On  Calvary's  sacred  height,  while  yet  the  blood 
That  flowed  to  wash  the  human  race  from  guilt 
Was  red  upon  the  tree  ;  ye  shone  on  all 
The  prophets  and  the  patriarchs  of  old, 
And  saw  their  tears  as  forth  they  stole  and  wept 
In  agony  beneath  your  silent  light ;  ••• ,   '" 

Ye  shone  upon  the  meek  and  reverend  heads 
Of  those  who  went  forth  in  the  strength  of  God, 
To  bear  His  message  to  a  fallen  world, 
And  on  the  dark  brows  and  the  gleaming  steel 
Of  the  fierce  hosts  that  spread  their  prophet's  creed 


STARLIGHT    MUSINGS.  67 

Abroad  by  sword  and  wasting  flame  ;  ye  shone 

On  Egypt's  plains  ere  yet  the  pyramids 

Lifted  their  bald  and  solemn  heads  to  heaven  ; 

Ye  shone  on  Tadmor,  Nineveh,  and  Rome, 

Their  glories  and  their  ruins  ;  ye  have  shone 

Upon  the  living  forms  and  on  the  graves 

Of  the  departed  generations  ;  ye 

Have  shone  on  all  that's  been  on  earth,  and  now 

Ye  shine  on  all  that  is.     Oh,  in  your  beams 

There  is  a  world  of  bright  and  awful  lore, 

A  deep  spell  woven  of  the  centuries, 

And  though  we  scarce  may  read  the  mystic  scroll, 

It  shines  upon  our  spirit  with  a  pure, 

And  deep,  and  mighty  power,  and  charms  away 

Care,  sin,  and  woe,  and  makes  us  strong  to  bear 

The  strifes  of  mortal  being. 

Beautiful 

And  holy  stars  !  ye  'seem  in  Paradise  ; 
Ay,  when  your  beams  are  resting  on  our  brows, 
We  feel  that  we  are  bathed  in  what  has  been 


68  STARLIGHT    MUSINGS. 

A  part  of  Heaven  itself.     We  know  that  ye 

Are  God's  own  thoughts  writ  by  His  mighty  hand, 

And  that  our  winged  souls,  by  mounting  up 

From  earth  and  mingling  with  your  flames,  may  catch 

A  portion  of  your  living  glory.     We, 

Chained  darkly  to  the  dust,  may  never  list 

With  mortal  ear  the  lofty  symphony 

That  ye  are  ever  pealing  in  your  swift 

And  radiant  sweep  through  the  eternal  space  ; 

Yet,  with  our  listening  spirits  we  can  hear 

Its  echoes  sounding  nightly  o'er  the  earth, 

The  solemn  music  of  eternity. 


TTTHY  didst  thou  leave  me  thus  ?     Had  memory 

No  chain  to  bind  thee  to  me,  lone  and  wrecked 
In  spirit  as  I  am  ?     Was  there  no  spell 
Of  power  in  my  deep,  yearning  love  to  stir 
The  sleeping  fountain  of  thy  soul,  and  keep 
My  image  trembling  there  1     Is  there  no  charm 
In  strong  and  high  devotion  such  as  mine, 
To  win  thee  to  my  side  once  more?     Must  I 
Be  cast  for  ever  off  for  brighter  forms 
And  gayer  smiles'?     Alas!  I  love  thee  still. 
Love  will  not,  cannot  perish  in  my  heart — 
'Twill  linger  there  for  ever.     Even  now 
In  our  own  dear,  sweet  sunset  time,  the  hour 
Of  passion's  unforgotten  tryst,  I  hush 


70  THE    DESERTED. 

The  raging  tumult  of  my  soul,  and  still 
The  fierce  strife  in  my  lonely  breast  where  pride 
Is  fiercely  struggling  for  control.     Each  hue 
Of  purple,  gold  and  crimson  that  flits  o'er 
The  western  sky,  recalls  some  by-gone  joy, 
That  we  have  shared  together,  and  my  soul 
Is  love's  and  memory's. 

As  here  I  sit 

In  loneliness,  the  thought  comes  o'er  my  heart, 
How  side  by  side  in  moonlight  eves,  while  soft 
The  rose-winged  hours  were  flitting  by,  we  stood 
Beside  that  clear  and  gently-murmuring  fount 
O'erhung  with  wild  and  blooming  vines,  and  felt 
The  spirit  of  a  holy  love  bedew 
Our  hearts'  own  budding  blossoms.     There  I  drank 
The  wild,  o'ermastering  tide  of  eloquence 
That  flowed  from  thy  o'erwrought  and  burning  soul. 
There  thou  didst  twine  a  wreath  of  sweetest  flowers 
To  shine  amid  my  dark  brown  locks,  and  now 
Beside  me  lies  a  bud,  the  little  bud 


THE    DESERTED.  71 

Thou  gav'st  me  in  the  glad,  bright  Summer-time, 
Telling  me  'twas  the  emblem  of  a  hope 
That  soon  would  burst  to  glorious  life  within 
Our  spirits'  garden.     The  poor  fragile  bud 
Is  now  all  pale  and  withered,  and  the  hope 
Is  faded  in  my  lonely  breast,  and  cast 
For  ever  forth  from  thine. 

They  tell  me,  too, 

My  brow  and  cheek  are  very  pale — Alas  ! 
There  is  no  more  a  spirit-fire  within 
To  light  it  with  the  olden  glow.     Life's  dreams 
And  visions  all  have  died  within  my  soul, 
And  I  am  sad,  and  lone,  and  desolate  ; 
And  yet  at  times,  when  I  behold  thee  near, 
A  something  like  the  dear  old  feeling  stirs 
Within  my  breast,  and  wakens  from  the  tomb 
Of  withered  memories  one  pale,  pale  rose, 
To  bloom  a  moment  there,  and  cast  around 
Its  sweet  and  gentle  fragrance,  but  anon 
It  vanishes  away,  as  if  it  were 


72  THE    DESERTED. 

A  mockery,  the  spectre  of  a  flower. 
I  quell  my  struggling  sighs,  and  wear  a  smile  ; 
But  ah !  that  smile,  more  eloquent  than  sighs, 
Tells  of  a  broken  heart. 

'Tis  said  that  thou 

Dost  ever  shine  the  gayest  'mid  the  gay. 
That  loudest  rings  thy  laugh  in  festive  halls, 
That  in  the  dance,  with  lips  all  wreathed  in  smiles, 
Thou  whisperest  love's  delicious  flatteries  ; 
And  if  my  name  is  spoken,  a  light  sneer 
Is  all  thy  comment.     Yet,  proud  man,  I  know 
Beneath  thy  hollow  mask  of  recklessness, 
Thy  conscious  heart  still  beats  as  true  to  me 
As  in  the  happy  eves  long  past.     Ah  !  once, 
In  night's  still  hour,  when  I  went  forth  to  weep 
Beneath  our  favorite  tree,  whose  giant  arms 
Seemed  stretched  out  to  protect  the  lonely  girl, 
I  marked  a  figure  stealing  thence  away, 
And  my  poor  heart  beat  quick  ;  for  oh  !  I  saw, 
Despite  the  closely  muffled  cloak,  'twas  thou. 


THE    DESERTED.  73 

Then,  then  I  knew  that  thou  in  secrecy 
Hadst  sought  that  spot,  like  me,  to  muse  and  weep 
O'er  blighted  memories.     Thou  art,  like  me, 
In  heart  a  mourner.     In  thy  solitude, 
When  mortal  eyes  hehold  thee  net,  wild  sighs 
Convulse  thy  bosom,  and  thy  hot  tears  fall 
Like  burning  rain.     Oh  !  'twas  thy  hand  that  dealt 
The  blow  to  both  our  hearts.     I  well  could  bear 
My  own  fierce  sufferings,  but  thus  to  feel 
That  thou,  in  all  thy  manhood's  glorious  strength, 
Dost  bear  a  deep  and  voiceless  agony, 
Lies  on  my  spirit  with  the  dull,  cold  weight 
Of  death.     I  see  thee  in  my  tortured  dreams, 
And  ever  with  a  smile  upon  thy  lip, 
But  a  keen  arrow  quivering  deep  within 
Thy  throbbing,  bleeding  heart.     Go,  thou  may'st  wed 
Another  ;  but  beside  the  altar  dark 
My  mournful  form  will  stand,  and  when  thou  seest 
The  wreath  of  orange  blossoms  on  her  brow, 
Oh  !  it  will  seem  a  fiery  scorpion  coiled 
Wildly  around  thine  own. 
4 


74  THE    DESERTED. 

I'm  dying  now ; 

Life's  sands  are  falling  fast,  the  silver  cord 
Is  loosed  and  broken,  and  the  golden  bowl 
Is  shattered  at  the  fount.     My  sun  has  set, 
And  dismal  clouds  hang  o'er  me  ;  but  afar 
I  see  the  glorious  realm  of  Paradise, 
And  by  its  cooling  fountains,  and  beneath 
Its  holy  shades  of  palm,  my  soul  will  wash 
Away  its  earthly  stains,  and  learn  to  dream 
Of  heavenly  joys.     Farewell !  despite  thy  cold 
Desertion,  I  will  leave  my  angel  home, 
Each  gentle  eve,  at  our  own  hour  of  tryst, 
To  hold  my  vigils  o'er  thy  pilgrimage, 
And  with  my  spirit-pinion  I  will  fan 
Thy  aching  brow,  and  by  a  holy  spell, 
That  I  may  learn  in  Heaven,  will  charm  away 
All  evil  thoughts  and  passions  from  thy  breast, 
And  calm  the  raging  tumult  of  thy  soul. 


a&rtost  1*  10  fte. 


THOU  lovest  me  no  more.     It  needs  not  words 
To  tell  me  thou  art  altered  now.     Alas  ! 
I  mark  it  well  in  thy  cold,  studied  tone. 
Oh  would  affection  seek  its  warmth  to  hide 
In  tones  whose  chilling,  freezing  cadences 
Fall  on  the  soul  like  Alpine  drops  ?     "Tis  true 
Thou  still  dost  say  that  I  am  dear  ;  thy  lip 
Still  murmurs  all  love's  practised  flatteries, 
But  thy  stern  glance  of  cold  and  withering  pride 
Turns  all  the  hollow  mockeries  of  thy  words 
To  bitter,  hitter  ashes  on  my  heart. 
I  utter  no  reproaches.     Slowly  now 
And  silently  and  mournfully  I  ope 
My  spirit's  rosy-gate,  and  drive  from  thence 


76  *   THOU     LOVEST    ME    NO    MORE. 

Each  dear  and  starwinged  hope  that  I  have  loved 
Through  long,  long  years  to  cherish. 


Never  more, — 

Oh  never  more,  thou  false  one,  may  I  bear 
In  vernal  bower  or  in  the  gilded  hall, 
A  free,  and  light,  and  happy  heart.     Yet  I 
Shall  mingle  still  amid  the  wild  and  gay, 
My  laugh  will  echo  loudest  in  the  din 
Of  mirth  and  joyousness,  and  none  may  know 
The  soul's  deep  bitterness,  the  quivering  hopes 
Crushed  on  the  spirit's  hearth.     My  smiles  will  be 
As  bright  as  they  have  been,  and  none  may  see, 
That,  cold  and  vacant  like  the  moon's  pale  beams 
Upon  a  ruined  temple,  they  but  light 
The  gloom  and  shadow  that  keep  watch  below. 
Mine  still  will  be  the  gay  and  merry  jest, 
The  keen  reply,  the  free  and  buoyant  tread, 
And  none  may  ever  rend  the  veil,  and  see 
What  darkly  lies  beneath. 


THOU    LOVEST    ME    NO    MORE.  77 

But  think  thou  not, 

Proud  and  perfidious  one,  my  strong,  stern  pride 
Shall  fail  me  in  my  solitude.     Ah  no, 
The  unrelenting  tear  may  never  break 
Forth  from  its  deep  and  hidden  fount.     The  spell 
Of  passion  still  is  on  me,  but  disdain 
Heeds  not  the  murmuring  tone  of  love's  wild  ^hant, 
That  rises  like  the  low  voice  of  the  wind 
Wandering  at  midnight  o'er  the  mouldering  chords 
Of  a  neglected  harp.     For  ever  crushed 
And  broken  be  the  rosy  memories 
That  in  their  fairy  beauty  floated  erst 
Through  my  love-lighted  soul. 

Thy  ring  is  cold, 

It  seems  to  bind  my  finger  with  a  spell 
Of  ice,  for  its  bright  circle  is  not  now 
The  emblem  of  unending  truth  and  trust. 
I'm  gazing  on  thy  picture,  but  I  see 
No  smile  of  sweet  endearment  on  these  lips, 
No  high  devotion  on  this  pale,  stern  brow, 


78        THOU  LOVEST  ME  NO  MORE. 

.No  gleam  of  love-light  beaming  in  these  eyes 
Of  midnight  fire — nay  even  here  is  change. 
I  send  thee  back  thy  vain  and  worthless  gifts — 
Ah,  proud  one,  would  that  I  could  give  thee  back 
Thy  bosom's  truth. 

I  said  I  would  not  weep 
Again,  but  drops  of  mingled  tears  and  blood, 
From  the  recesses  of  a  breaking  heart 
Are  gushing,  and  the  shower  has  brought  relief ; 
For  oh  !  I  feel  that  now  the  awful  gloom 
Which  filled  my  bosom  with  its  cloudy  weight, 
Is  broken  and  dispersed.     Within  its  deep 
Dark  mists  the  genius  of  the  tempest  stood 
Like  a  dread  night-mare  of  the  soul,  and  held 
My  spirit's  elements  in  thrall,  but  now 
The  loosened  zephyrs  wander  as  they  list, 
The  deep,  strong  spell  that  bound  them  is  dissolved, 
And  lo  !  the  twilight  soft  comes  stealing  on 
With  its  one  star,  the  star  of  memory, 
Pale,  pale,  but  very  beautiful. 


THOU    LOVEST    ME    NO    MORE.  79 

I  count 

The  drops  that,  one  by  one,  fall  on  niy  heart, 
Turning  its  woman's  softness  into  stone ; 
Yet,  to  that  heart,  all  worn  and  changed,  thou  still 
Art  dear,  and  ever  wilt  be  dear.     Some  thoughts 
Of  thee,  though  all  my  future  years  will  be 
Like  by-gone  music  lingering  in  my  soul, 
A  sweet  bird-carol  heard  in  childhood's  years, 
Or  like  the  lone  funereal  lamp  that  burns 
Within  the  dark  and  solitary  depths 
Of  Eastern  tombs,  forever  shining  on 
Where  all  around  is  death  and  dull  decay. 


QITRANGE  feelings  wildly 'throng  around  my  heart 

^   On  this  my  natal  day.     They  seem  to  come 

Like  mournful  spirits  from  the  distant  past, 

And  from  the  dim,  sad  future.     Down,  far  down 

Into  my  soul  I  gaze,  and  memory, 

The  wizard,  that  hears  sway  in  that  lone  realm, 

Calls  perished  joys  and  hopes  from  out  their  graves, 

And  hids  them  glow,  and  live,  and  hreathe,  and  I 

Seem  once  again  a  happy  child  amid 

The  scenes  of  other  days,  with  long-lost  friends 

Clasping  my  hand,  or  sitting  at  my  side, 

And  murmuring  in  my  ear  their  gentle  tones 

Of  melody  and  love. 


MY    BIRTH-DAY. 

My  natal  day ! 

In  other,  happier  years,  I  used  to  hail 
Its  advent  with  a  thrill  of  joy  and  pride, 
For  then  I  deemed  it  but  an  added  link 
To  a  young  life  that  would  for  ever  wear 
The  lovely  rose-tints  of  the  morning  heavens 
That  hung  serene  and  beautiful  above, 
Unbroken  by  a  storm-cloud  ;  but  to-day 
A  sigh,  a  tear,  is  in  my  soul  to  think 
Wave  after  wave  of  my  existence  thus 
Breaks  on  ttfe  shore  of  old  Eternity, 
And  sinks  to  silence  and  to  nothingness. 
Here  in  my  spirit's  awful  solitude 
I  muse  upon  the  thousand  hopes  that  rushed 
Impatient  to  life's  banquet,  and  expired 
In  tasting  of  the  poison-cup  they  thought 
A  boon  the  gods  might  crave. 

My  birth-day!  Years 

Have  flown  and  left  me  a  lone  mourner.     One 
By  one  I've  seen  the  deeply,  dearly  loved, 

4* 


82  MY    BIRTH-DAY. 

The  friends  and  guardians  of  my  childhood,  fade 

And  wither  like  the  leaves  when  Autumn  sets 

His  many-tinted  signet  on  the  woods. 

Yet  I,  whose  life  in  this  drear  month  began, 

Still  linger  darkly,  sadly  here  to  weep 

For  vanished  stars  and  lovely  blighted  flowers 

That  shed  upon  my  life,  in  brighter  years, 

Their  lustre  and  their  perfume.     But  with  hopes 

All  crushed,  and  eyes  bathed  in  the  heart's  best  dew, 

I  lift  my  gaze  above  the  earth,  and  read 

Upon  the  far  sky's  blue  and  starry  scroll, 

A  beautiful  and  holy  promise.     God 

Watches  and  shields  the  lonely  orphan  here  ; 

Ay,  He  who  kindly  tempers  the  cold  wind 

To  the  shorn  lamb,  will  temper  life's  fierce  storms 

To  her  who  calls  upon  His  sacred  name 

In  deep  and  fervent  prayer. 

My  natal  day  ! 

'Tis  slowly  melting  in  the  twilight  now, 
And  soon  its  tints  along  the  western  sky 


MY    BIRTH-DAY. 

That  seem  a  rose-wreath  on  the  brow  of  death, 
Will  pass  away.     My  natal  day,  farewell ! 
Oh  may'st  thgu,  if  thy  light  shall  ever  come 
To  me  again  on  earth,  behold  the  hopes, 
That  droop  and  fold  within  my  lonely  soul 
Their  broken  pinions  now,  soar  proudly  up, 
And  revel,  'mid  the  glories  of  the  sky. 

LOUISVILLE  Kr. 


H*  Stotont. 

A  LONE  he  sat.     His  broad  and  lofty  brow 
"•  Was  bent  upon  his  thin,  pale  hand  ;  his  locks 
Of  jet  hung  o'er  it  with  a  darkened  shade  ; 
His  black  and  glistening  eye  gleamed  with  some  deep 
And  sad  and  earnest  thought ;  his  cheek  was  white — 
White  as  the  Parian  stone  ;  his  quivering  lip 
Was  blanched  to  Death's  own  hue  ;  and  the  blue  veins 
That  branched  along  his  temples  seemed  to  throb 
With  the  strong  spirit's  fever. 

All  alone, 

In  the  dim  twilight's  calm  and  solemn  hour, 
He  sat  and  mused  upon  his  far-off  home, 
His  happy  childhood's  faded  years,  and  all 
The  beauty  and  the  glory  that  had  passed 


THE    STUDENT  85 

With  them  for  evermore.     He  sadly  thought 
Of  his  sweet  sister,  with  her  golden  hair 
Streaming  and  waving  on  the  morning  wind — 
His  bold  young  brother  sporting  at  his  side, 
With  a  free  shout,  as  joyous  as  the  sound 
Of  bright,  glad  waters,  leaping  to  the  sheen 
Of  early  Spring — his  mother's  gentle  kiss, 
Her  sad,  sweet  smile,  her  holy  words  of  love — 
His  gray-haired  father's  fervent  blessing,  breathed 
With  quivering  lip,  at  the  last  parting  hour, 
When  his  own  tears  fell  like  the  Summer  rain — 
And  her,  the  dearer  still,  whose  soft,  blue  eye, 
Through  dark  and  gloomy  years,  had  been  to  him 
The  day-star  of  his  being.     Ay,  he  thought 
Of  these,  all  sleeping  in  the  church-yard  now, 
And  'mid  his  mournful  musings  he  forgot 
The  world,  his  many  triumphs,  and  his  wild 
And  maddening  love  of  fame,  that  in  the  dim 
And  distant  future  might  make  melody, 
Dear  melody  for  his  now  lonely  ear ; 
And  then  he  bowed  his  strong  and  lofty  heart, 


THE    STUDENT. 

And,  'inid  his  sad  and  holy  memories,  wept 
His  stern,  dark  pride  away. 

From  his  deep  trance — 

His  long,  deep  trance  of  memory,  love  and  grief- 
He  started  up,  and  clenching  his  pale  hands 
In  strong  resolve,  he  raised  his  eyes  to  Heaven, 
And  moved  his  thin  and  hloodless  lips,  and  vowed 
To  win  a  name  a  nation  should  adore — 
To  write  it  on  the  broad  and  glorious  scroll 
Of  living  greatness.     Then,  as  o'er  his  heart 
The  vision  stole  with  bright  and  burning  power, 
That  would  not  be  controlled,  he  smiled,  and  quelled 
The  rushing  tide  of  passion's  flood,  and  pressed 
The  one  bright  picture  to  his  breast — the  dear, 
Prized  picture  of  his  future  glory. 

High 

Among  the  foremost  of  his  country's  sons 

That  student  stands.     The  wild  and  stormy  souls 

Of  multitudes  bow  to  his  master-will, 


THE    STUDENT.  87 

Even  as  the  sheaves  the  dreaming  patriarch  saw 
Bow  to  the  master  sheaf.     Each  lightning  flash 
Of  his  sublime  and  glorious  intellect 
Is  followed  by  the  long,  loud  thunder-peal 
Of  popular  acclaim.     Lone  and  bereft 
In  heart,  he  sways  a  mighty  people's  hearts, 
And  moves  majestic  in  his  pride  of  place, 
Lord  of  the  realm's  applause.     Ah,  little  know 
The  idolizing  world  the  bitter  throes 
That  rend  his  soul,  the  weary  woe  he  bears 
Without  a  word  or  sign.     His  power  and  fame 
Are  all  they  know  or  seek  to  know.     No  eye 
Save  God's  may  see  him  in  his  solitude, 
When,  'mid  the  holy  stillness  of  the  night, 
He  turns  from  all  life's  glittering  pomp  away, 
And  weeps  and  sobs,  ay,  like  a  very  child. 


0f  firs.  Jtote  H. 


ON    VISITING    HER    HOUSE    AFTER    HER    DEATH. 

Ojl  HE  is  not  here  !     Alas,  she  is  not  here  ! 

Yet  all  still  breathes  and  speaks  of  her.     Her  sweet 
And  living  presence  is  in  every  thing. 
The  very  breeze,  deep-laden  with  the  soft, 
Rich  perfume  of  her  own,  her  much-loved  flowers, 
Seems  murmuring  with  a  sigh  her  cherished  name. 
Through  the  lone  chambers  of  her  darkened  home 
I  wander  oft,  and  pine  to  greet  once  more 
Her  beauteous  form  now  mingling  with  the  dust. 
The  shadow  of  deep  gloom  hath  settled  round 
The  holy  hearth  where  joy  was  wont  to  ring. 
The  lovely  Spring-time  is  again  on  earth, 


IN    MEMORY    OF    MRS.    O'BRIEN.  89 

Kissing  the  thousand  wild-flowers  into  bloom 
And  fairy  life  ;  upon  the  rosy  gale 
The  wild-bird's  song  is  floating  ;  a  bright  robe 
Is  o'er  the  wooded  hills  ;  and  from  the  soft, 
Green  bosom  of  the  earth,  the  young  buds  burst, 
As  springs  the  soul  immortal  from  the  tomb 
Of  darkness  and  of  shadow  ;  but  the  flowers 
Look  sad,  a  hue  of  sorrow  seems  to  dim 
Their  beauty's  glow,  as  if  they  missed  her  sweet 
And  gentle  ministry,  and  wept  bright  tears 
Of  dew  for  their  dear  sister-spirit  dead  ; 
The  wild-bird's  music  seems  a  wail  of  grief 
Breathed  for  the  loved  and  lost ;  the  blessed  beam 
Has  lost  its  smile,  as  if  it  sought  in  vain 
For  her  fair  angel-brow,  on  which  to  shed 
Its  answering  lustre. 

All  is  lone  and  drear — 
I  gaze  upon  her  partner's  grief-bow'd  form, 
And  mark  the  deepened  silver  of  his  locks, 
And  my  heart  checks  its  selfish  sighs.     Her  child, 


90  IN    MEMORY    OF    MRS.    O'BRIEN. 

Her  cherub-child,  is  sporting  in  the  bloom 

Of  infancy,  but  yet  her  very  mirth 

Seems  strangely  sad,  as  if  her  spirit  felt 

That  Death's  stern  hand  had  crushed  her  parent  stem, 

And  thrown  her  as  a  loosened  bud  to  float 

Upon  the  dark  and  stormy  waves  of  time, 

A  thing  of  lone  and  blighted  life. 

Dear  friend, 

Friend  of  my  childhood's  bright  and  happy  years, 
Where  dwells  thy  spirit  now?     I  feel  its  power 
In  this  calm  twilight  air  ;  I  catch  thy  tone 
In  the  sweet  cadence  of  this  evening  gale  ; 
I  see  the  holy  beauty  of  thy  face 
In  the  strange  beauty  of  yon  sunset  cloud  ; 
I  feel  thy  breath  upon  my  cheek,  as  though 
Thy  spirit  in  its  angel-mission  o'er 
The  darkened  earth,  stooped  from  its  glorious  flight 
To  whisper  hope  and  comfort  to  my  bruised 
And  broken  spirit.     Can  it  be  1     Ah  yes, 
O'er  this  lone  spot  thy  bright  and  guardian  wings 


IN    MEMORY    OF    MRS.    O'BRIEN.  91 

Are  hovering,  and  at  night  thy  angel-arms 
Enfold  again  the  loved  of  earth,  and  guard 
From  coming  ills  the  children  of  thy  heart. 
It  must  be  so,  for  oh,  I  know  that  this 
Blest  presence  is  thine  own.     Thy  spirit  glides 
Around  me  at  the  morning,  noon,  and  eve, 
And  at  the  solemn  midnight,  and  I  thank 
Thy  God  and  mine,  that  I  am  not  alone.     . 

BEDFORD,  APRIL  12th,  1851. 


fff  ifo* 


A  N  hour  ago  the  music  at  the  wood, 

And  the  low  chant  of  waves  came  o'er  the  glade, 
But  now  no  murmur  breaks  the  solitude, 

And  a  stern  weight  on  Nature's  pulse  seems  laid. 
Yon  moon  has  seen  the  death  of  countless  years 
From  her  blue  air-halls  in  the  midnight  sky. 
And  lo  !  her  dim  sad  eye  looks  down  through  tears 
Upon  the  earth  to  see  another  die. 

Silent  and  beautiful,  she  sits  alone, 

The  princess  of  the  sky,  and  in  her  pale 

Sweet  light  a  spell  of  mournful  love  seems  thrown 
Upon  the  plain,  the  forest,  and  the  vale  : 


CLOSE    OF    THE    YEAR. 

It  is  the  old  year's  death-hour,  but  no  sob 

Comes  on  the  night-air  from  his  dying  breast ; 

Serene,  and  calm,  and  strrt,  without  one  throb 
Of  agony  he  passes  to  his  rest. 


Yet  tears  are  in  our  hearts  and  in  our  eyes, 

Mid  the  strange  stillness  of  this  solemn  night, 
While  here  we  sit  and  muse  upon  the  ties 

The  dying  year  has  severed  in  his  flight ; 
Ay,  as  his  last  breath  on  the  air  is  flung, 

Our  hearts  are  heavy  and  our  eyes  are  dim 
With  thinking  of  the  woes  that  with  him  sprung 

To  life — alas  ;  they  cannot  die  with  him. 

Like  the  cold  shadow  of  a  demon's  plume, 
A  chilling  darkness  that  will  not  depart 

Lies  on  our  thoughts,  and  casts  its  sullen  gloom 
Around  the  dearest  idols  of  the  heart ; 

We  learn  in  youth  the  stern  and  bitter  lore 

That  comes  of  ruined  hopes  and  darkened  dreams, 


94  CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR; 

And  Nature  has  no  magic  to  restore 

The  glory  of  the  spirit's  shadowed  gleams. 
| 

Scattered  and  broken  on  life's  desert  wide, 

The  soul's  best  gems,  its  brightest  treasures  shine, 
And  memories  of  joy,  and  love,  and  pride 

Lie  dim  upon  the  bosom's  shattered  shrine  : 
We  gaze  into  the  future,  but  a  shade 

Is  on  its  visions,  they  are  not  so  blest 
And  beautiful  as  those  the  year  has  laid 

Within  the  heart's  deep  sepulchre  to  rest. 

The  music  of  our  being's  rushing  stream 

Is  growing  sad  and  sadder  day  by  day, 
And  life  is  but  a  troubled  fever-dream 

That  soon  must  vanish  from  our  souls  away ; 
But  when  this  wild  and  tearful  dream  is  past, 

The  mounting  spirits  of  the  pure  will  rove 
Above  the  cloud,  the  whirlwind,  and  the  blast, 

In  the  bright  Eden  of  immortal  love. 


CLOSE    OF    THE    YEAR.  95 

Farewell,  old  year  !  while  sorrow  dims  our  eyes, 

We  bless  thee  for  the  lessons  thou  hast  given  ; 
Though  thou  hast  filled  earth's  atmosphere  with  sighs, 

We  trust  that  thou  hast  brought  us  nearer  heaven  : 
Some  stars  that  gleam  along  thy  shadowy  track 

Will  shine  upon  our  hearts  with  holy  power, 
And  oft  our  pilgrim-spirits  will  come  back 

To  muse  and  weep  o'er  this  thy  dying  hour. 


Old  year,  farewell,  the  myriad  flowers  that  thou 

Hast  blighted,  will  again  in  beauty  bloom, 
And  breathing  millions  thou  hast  caused  to  bow 

In  death,  will  rise  in  triumph  from  the  tomb. 
Not  thus,  old  year,  with  thee.     Thy  life,  now  fled, 

No  power  of  God  or  Nature  will  restore ; 
The  graves  of  years  may  not  give  up  their  dead, 

And  thou  wilt  live,  oh  never,  nevermore. 


Farewell,  for  ever  fare  thee  well,  old  year ! 
The  gentle  angel,  missioned  at  thy  birth 


96  CLOSE    OF    THE    YEAR. 

To  keep  life's  records  through  thy  sojourn  here, 
Has  poised  his  shining  wing  and  left  the  earth ; 

Oh,  may  the  words  of  love  and  mercy  fall, 

Heaven's  own  blest  music,  on  each  erring  soul, 

When,  on  His  burning  throne,  the  Judge  of  all 
Shall  to  our  eyes  unfold  the  awful  scroll ! 


f&jor  mg  titogie. 

Tl  TY  cousin,  I  am  gazing  on  thee  now, 

And  well  I  mark,  with  soul  of  joy  and  pride, 
The  changing  beauty  of  thy  glorious  face. 
With  rapture  swelling  in  my  heart  of  love 
I  gaze  upon  thy  young  and  joyous  cheek, 
Where  roses  pure  reveal  their  richest  dyes, 
And  shed  their  sweetest  perfume — thy  soft  eye, 
Thy  soft,  meek  eye  of  mild  and  tender  blue, 
Trembling  beneath  its  dark  and  fringy  lash, 
And  glowing  with  the  spirit-dreams  that  seem 
Reflected  from  its  calm,  mysterious  depths, 
Like  gems  from  ocean-caves — thy  lofty  brow 
O'er  which  the  blue  veins  stray  like  tranquil  streams 
Along  a  lovely  plain — thy  temples  pale, 


98  TO    MY    GEORGIE. 

Where  thy  brown  wealth  of  waving  tresses  floats 

In  beautiful  luxuriance — thy  lips 

Of  richest  coral,  where  a  thousand  smiles 

Appear  and  flee  in  frolic  chase,  like  birds 

Around  a  sleeping  lake  at  morning-tide — 

I  gaze  on  these,  sweet  cousin,  and  in  all 

I  see  a  spirit  of  deep  purity  ; 

A  living,  breathing,  glowing  soul  of  deep 

And  holy  purity,  from  which  dark  Vice 

And  Sin  would  cower  and  fly,  rebuked  and  quelled 

As  by  Religion's  power. 

My  cousin  dear, 

Thou  art  a  very  dream  of  loveliness, 
And  beauty  is  thy  purity.     Thou  art 
A  creature  whose  high  soul  is  troubled  not 
With  the  temptations  of  a  world  of  sin. 
Thy  gentle  spirit  here  hath  kept  undimmed 
The  angel-charm  on  which  our  God  in  heaven 
Set  His  own  signet  of  unchanging  truth. 
I  love  thee,  and  I  reverence  thy  high 


TO     MY    GEORGIE. 

And  holy  strength  of  purpose.     Gentleness, 
And  loftiness,  and  virtue  are  in  all 
Thy  feelings,  and  they  stamp  thy  mortal  life 
With  an  immortal  beauty. 

Cousin  dear, 

As  here  I  fix  my  tearful  eyes  on  thee, 
And  hear  thy  tones  of  pure  and  gentle  love, 
My  spirit  seems  to  see  an  angel's  form, 
And  hear  the  cadence  of  an  angel's  voice. 
Thou  art  young,  pure,  and  sweet — life  heckons  thee 
To  a  bright  destiny.     Thy  loving  friends 
Are  ever,  ever  round  thee,  making  earth 
All  that  thy  true  and  gentle  heart  could  crave 
In  its  wild  fairy  visions.     There  are  those 
For  ever  round  thy  glowing  path,  who  fling 
A  brightness  on  thy  being,  and  to  whom 
Thy  own  sweet  life  is  as  the  radiant  beam 
And  the  refreshing  dew-drop  to  the  parched 
And  desert  earth.     Ay,  thou  art  blest  with  all 
That  makes  life  beautiful,  with  not  one  cloud 


100  TO    MY    GEORGIE. 

To  dim  thy  heaven.     Thus  may  it  ever  be. 
Dear  friend,  with  thee.     May  no  dark  sorrows  e'er 
Come  o'er  thy  tranquil  life,  like  those  that  frown 
So  dark  o'er  my  sad  fate.     Oh  I  would  pray 
The  Power  who  sends  to  me  a  night  of  grief 
And  storm  of  bitter  tears,  to  give  to  thee 
The  bright  sky  where  no  thunder-cloud  e'er  breaks 
The  holy  blue:  to  give  thee  a  bright  path, 
Where  no  foul  serpents  coil  to  blight  and  mar 
The  angels'  shining  footsteps,  and  no  thorns 
Mingle  with  love's  pure  garlands. 

Cousin  sweet, 

May  peace,  and  joy,  and  hope  be  thine  on  earth ; 
May  these  e'er  be  thy  blessed  ministers, 
Thy  guardian-spirits  here,  and  may  they  crown 
Thy  beaming  brow  in  God's  own  Paradise, 
With  their  bright  wreath  of  immortality. 

OHIO  RIVKB,  JUKE  23. 


In  Itorg  0f  Kg  Jfatjer. 

~T\EAR  father  mine,  thy  grave  is  far  away-  — 
-•-^  Soft,  sunny  skies,  bend  warm  and  lovingly 
Above  thy  dreamless  slumber,  and  the  waves 
Of  a  far  southern  stream  sweep  by,  and  bear 
In  their  low  tones  a  message  and  a  sigh 
From  thy  unhappy  child. 

My  father  dear, 

These  eyes  Lave  never  gazed  upon  thy  grave, 
These  hands  have  never  taught  the  sweet  Spring-rose 
To  bloom  on  that  neglected  spot ;  but  ah, 
Within  my  soul  there  is  a  holy  flower, 
A  flower  perennial,  watered  with  my  tears, 
And  kissed  to  bloom  by  the  sweet  beam  of  love — 


102  IN    MEMORY    OF    MY    FATHER. 

Father,  that  flower  is  memory  of  thee. 

Years,  weary,  anxious  years  have  passed  o'er  earth, 

And  shadowed  in  their  course  young,  loving  hearts, 

Since  that  bright  morning  when  we  saw  thee  go 

Forth  in  the  beauty  of  thy  glorious  prime, 

Bearing  to  thy  far  southern  home  a  fair    ' 

And  gentle  bride.     Oh,  father,  thou  didst  kiss 

Thy  little  prattler  with  a  beaming  smile, 

And  give  her  to  thy  mother's  holy  care  ; 

But  even  then  I  heard  a  faint,  low  sigh, 

Which  sadly  fell  upon  my  ear  and  heart, 

The  omen  of  a  coming  agony. 

They  tell  me  that  a  fair,  young  stranger  girl, 
Who  knew  thee  not,  has  placed  a  sweet  wildrose 
,  To  shed  its  gentle  fragrance  o'er  thy  dust. 
Her  pitying  heart  was  deeply  touched  to  look 
On  thy  neglected  sleep,  and,  with  the  pure 
Sweet  instinct  of  a  daughter,  she  placed  flowers 
Upon  thy  lonely  grave.     My  deep  heart  breathes 
A  blessing  upon  hers.     Oh  may  no  griefs 


IN    MEMORY     OF    MY    FATHER.  1Q3 

E'er  fall  upon  her  life  like  those  which  rest 
So  dark  0:1  mine. 

Oh  father,  my  poor  heart 
Is  lone  and  sad  to-night.     In  agony 
'Tis  calling  to  thee  in  thy  distant  grave. 
I  am  an  orphan  lone,  and,  when  my  brow 
Is  fevered  and  my  heart  oppressed,  I  fain 
Would  fly  to  thee ;  I  would  pour  out  my  grief 
Beside  thy  mouldering  ashes  ;  I  would  weep 
Beside  the  cold  grave-stone,  and  on  the  ear 
Of  Death  would  breathe  a  stricken  daughter's  woe. 
My  spirit  calls  to  thine — oh  come  to  me 
In  this  lone  hour,  and  let  me  know  once  more 
A  father's  holy  love.     Ah,  now  a  strange 
Mysterious  thrill  comes  o'er  my  soul ;  I  feel 
A  spirit's  presence — father,  is  it  thine  ! 
Yes,  it  is  thine,  I  see  thee,  and  through  all 
The  trembling  fibres  of  my  frame  I  feel 
That  hallowed  kiss.     Stay,  blessed  father,  stay, 
And  leave  me  never  more  alone  on  this 


104  IN     MEMORY    OF    MY    FATHER. 

Cold  desert  of  the  earth.     If  thou  must  go, 
Dear  father,  fold  thy  angel-wings  around 
Thy  child,  and  bear  her  to  thy  far  blue  home, 
To  rest  for  ever  with  our  God  and  thee. 

BEDFORD,  KY. 


fire  f0ne  ®ne  at  %  ©llr  f&rg$tin|-$to. 

TT  is  the  twilight  hour,  and  o'er  the  earth 
*-  The  softening  spells  of  evening  shadows  steal. 
All  here  is  stillness  now,  and  I  have  come 
To  look  once  more  upon  this  spot,  and  hold 
Communion  with  the  unforgotten  past. 
My  heart,  all  sad  and  lonely,  here  would  breathe 
The  silent  music  that  clings  round  its  chords. 
The  perfume  from  the  incense-breathing  meads 
Steals  o'er  my  spirit,  like  the  fragrance  caught 
From  many  a  broken,  pale,  and  withered  flower 
Of  faded  memory.     The  evening  star 
Still  shines  above  as  bright  as  when  it  beamed, 
In  eve's  long  past,  a  watchfire  in  the  heavens, 
To  guide  his  steps  to  me 
5* 


106  THE    LONE    ONE. 

Ah,  here  where  once 

My  young  heart  knew  life's  deepest  blessings,  I 
Would  weep  away  that  heart's  remaining  youth. 
Here  where  'twas  soft  and  gentle,  it  should  now 
Learn  to  be  strong.     Years,  with  their  joys  and  griefs, 
Have  passed  away  and  left  this  sacred  spot 
Unchanged.     The  little  rustic  seat  where  we 
Erst  while^  away  the  dear  and  blissful  hours 
With  love's  low-murmured  melodies,  is  still 
As  memory  oft  has  pictured  it.     Again 
My  heart  forgets  its  shadows  and  its  gloom, 
The  tones  of  love  thrill  through  its  depths,  and  on 
The  breeze  the  cadence  of  his  words  is  borne  ; 
Again  my  hand  within  his  own  is  pressed, 
To  his  my  eyes  are  turned  and  drink  again 
The  bliss  of  that  dear  smile. 

Within  my  soul 

So  dark  and  drear,  a  light  is  breaking  now, 
'Tis  memory's  holy  star-gleam,  'tis  a  light 
From  out  the  happy  past.     Deep  in  my  heart 


THE    LONE    ONE.  107 

There  blooms  a  single  flower,  a  lonely  flower 
Of  faded  recollection,  the  "  last  rose  " 
Of  joy's  departed  Summer,  a  sweet  bloom 
Whose  sad  pale  beauty  lingers  mournfully 
Upon  life's  darkened  waste — it  is  the  bloom 
Of  dear  remembered  love,  and  now  my  heart, 
My  weary  heart,  finds  rapture  in  this  spot 
Of  holy  tryst. 

But.  lo  !  the  roseate  tints 
Have  slowly  faded  from  the  Western  sky, 
The  mystic  lamps  of  Heaven  shine  far  above, 
And  the  pale  moonbeams  slumber  with  a  wan 
Mysterious  light  upon  this  blessed  scene. 
The  falling  dews  are  heavy  on  my  hair, 
Whilst  tears,  delicious  tears,  are  welling  up 
From  my  heart's  shadowed  fount. 

I  am  alone 

With  God  and  with  His  holy  messengers 
That  guard  this  sacred  place.     A  soft  low  prayer 
Is  gently  stirring  all  my  heart's  young  leaves, 


108  THE    LONE    ONE. 

And  breathing  from  my  lips.     Oh  I  would  ask 
For  him  a  charmed  existence.     I  would  ask 
That  on  my  life  the  shadows  lengthening 
In  their  decline  might  rest,  so  he  be  spared 
A  single  sorrow.     Let  the  blessed  beam 
Shine  on  him,  and  the  shadow  hang  o'er  me. 
My  life  within  the  "  vale  of  shadows  "  e'er 
Must  lie,  but  oh  may  his  be  on  the  bright, 
Sun-lighted  mount,  and  from  my  lowly  home, 
With  outstretched  arms  and  yearning  heart,  I'll  lift 
My  soul  to  pierce  the  cloud-gloom,  and  to  gaze 
With  love  and  tears  on  him. 

Sweet  spot,  farewell ! 

Take  these,  my  breaking  heart's  wild,  burning  tears 
As  its  deep  blessing.     Take  my  stifled  sobs 
As  tokens  of  my  parting  agony. 
The  holy  light  of  love  that  ever  burns 
Within  my  soul  on  memory's  sacred  shrine, 
Has  gathered  brightness  and  intensity 
From  this  lone  eve's  communion.     Dearest  spot, 
Farewell !  farewell !  I  may  not  see  thee  more. 


pus  to 

ON   HER   MARRIAGE. 

T1AIR  lady,  new  and  holy  ties  are  thine, 

The  dearest  ties  e'er  twined  by  earth  or  heaven, 
And  oh  may  every  blessing  on  thee  shine, 
That  to  a  mortal  spirit  can  be  given. 

Thou  art,  indeed,  most  beautiful  and  fair, 
No  shadow  rests  upon  thy  queenly  brow, 

And  I  will  pray  that  never  grief  or  care, 
May  dim  the  life,  so  pure  and  happy  now. 

Thou  goest  from  thy  dear  old  parent  home, 
The  home  of  peace,  of  happiness  and  love, 

Yet  still  'twill  be,  where'er  thy  feet  may  roam, 
An  ark  of  refuge  for  the  wandering  dove. 


110  LINES    TO    MISS    . 

Within  another's  heart  thy  heart  of  pride, 
Its  sweetest  bliss,  its  dearest  life  has  found, 

And  may  thy  deep  devotion,  gentle  bride, 
Forever  be  with  richest  garlands  crowned. 

My  spirit  fain  would  weave  a  mystic  spell, 
To  bless  thy  lofty  spirit,  it  would  pray, 

That  all  the  richest  joys,  that  ever  fell. 
From  heaven  to  earth,  may  fall  around  thy  way. 

'Twould  pray  that  if  the  storm  thy  skies   shall  shroud, 
And  the  dear  light  of  sun  and  stars  depart, 

The  holy  beams  that  glow  beyond  the  cloud, 
May  shine  serenely  on  thy  mounting  heart. 

Thy  face  hath  wakened  in  my  heart  a  high 
Bright  dream  of  beauty  to  my  spirit  dear, 

And  oh  !  may  I  behold  thee  in  the  sky, 
As  beautiful  as  I  behold  thee  here. 

KENTUCKY,  DEC.  3d. 


T  DO  not  love  thee,  yet  why  does  thy  calm 

-*-  Sweet  smile  forever  haunt  my  dreams,  and  why 

Do  thy  dark  eyes  beam  gloriously  on  mine 

Like  bright  stars  from  the  midnight  heaven  of  sleep  ? 

No  tone  of  sweetest  music  ever  falls 

Upon  my  ear  at  gentle  eve  but  breathes 

The  music  of  thy  voice  ;  no  silver  wave 

E'er  murmurs  at  my  feet  but  seems  to  glass 

Thy  face  and  form  ;  no  lovely  blossom  springs 

Beside  my  lonely  pathway  but  exhales 

The  perfume  of  thy  breath. 


112  TO 

When  thou  art  near, 
My  thrilling  spirit  seems  a  universe 
Of  happiness  and  beauty.     Blessed  dreams 
Of  airy  loveliness  float  through  my  soul ; 
A  chastened  splendor  rests  upon  my  life, 
As  a  soft  pillar  of  the  moonlight  rests 
Upon  the  deep  ;  and  a  soft  glory  comes 
From  thy  sweet  presence  o'er  my  heart,  to  charm 
My  senses  into  worship. 

On  thy  brow 

I  read  the  might  of  lofty  intellect, 
And  I  have  listened  with  a  panting  heart 
To  thy  high  words  of  music  and  of  pride, 
And  bowed  my  soul  in  homage  to  thy  power, 
Thou  glorious  son  of  genius.     Every  star 
That  trembles  in  the  blue  empyrean,  seems 
A  torch  to  light  thy  spirit's  sweeping  track 
Through  Heaven's  serene  abyss  ;  and  holy  night 
Seems  but  a  stole  of  solemn  hue  thrown  round 
The  radiance  of  thy  soul. 


TO  113 

Thou  art  afar, 

I  know  not  where,  but  still  the  arches  lone 
Of  Memory's  sacred  temple  are  illumed 
By  the  pure,  blessed  brilliancy  they  caught 
From  thy  dear  presence,  and'  they  echo  yet 
Thy  voice's  spirit-music,  till  the  air 
Grows  tremulous  with  joy.     The  wanderers  o'er 
The  bright  realms  of  the  rosy  Hesperus, 
Ne'er  revelled  in  an  atmosphere  of  bliss 
Like  that  which  thrills  around  me  with  the  spell 
Of  thy  remembered  cadences. 

And  yet 

I  love  thee  not.     I  only  ask  to  look 
With  thee  upon  the  heavens  that  roll  serene 
And  beautiful  above  ;  to  sit  and  gaze 
On  the  same  stars  thou  gazest  on,  and  send 
My  soul  to  thine  when  slumber's  midnight  dews 
Have  fallen  on  thy  blue-veined  lids,  and  hushed 
Thy  heart  to  rest.     Oh  I  would  love  to  flit, 
The  spirit  of  the  zephyr,  through  thy  dreams, 


114  TO . 

Waking  to  beauty  and  to  melody 

Thy  fancy's  wild  and  leaping  waves  ;  to  glide* 

A  star-beam,  through  thy  softly-shadowed  soul, 

Flinging  a  glory  o'er  thy  sleeping  world  ; 

To  murmur  like  a  voice  from  out  the  air 

Within  thy  dreaming  ear,  and  blend  my  thoughts 

With  thy  own  thoughts  of  flame. 

Then  thou  wouldst  feel 
My  kisses  on  thy  lip,  and  my  young  heart 
Pressed  to  thy  throbbing  bosom  as  I  watched 
O'er  thy  unguarded  hours,  but  yet  no  spell, 
Flung  on  thy  sweetly-troubled  sleep,  should  haunt 
Thy  waking  life  with  its  remembered  charm. 
Ha  !  what  wild  power  is  this  that  fills  my  soul, 
Holding  thought,  feeling,  ay,  my  very  life, 
In  its  resistless  thrall  ?     'Tis  strangely  sweet, 
Yet  there  is  madness  in  its  influence, 
And  with  a  trembling  soul  and  frame  I  bow 
To  its  mysterious  mastery.     Oh,  unchain 
Thy  victim,  strong  and  beauteous  spirit,  take 


TO .  115 

Thy  magic  fetter  from  my  soul ;  unbind 
My  wing  and  leave  me  free,  as  I  Jiave  been, 
To  wander  with  the  birds,  the  waves,  the  winds, 
The  clouds,  the  stars,  where'er  I  list,  o'er  earth 
And  through  the  blue  and  boundless  cope  of  Heaven. 

LOUISVILLE,  KY.,  JANUARY  6,  1852. 


~jl  /TY  dear,  lost  mother,  it  is  midnight  now, 
J_T_L  rpke  ^y  -g  ^k  an(j  starless,  and  the  earth 
Seems  bound  as  with  a  spell  of  silence.     All 
Around  is  still  and  pulseless  as  the  heart 
Whence  life  has  fled  for  ever.     At  this  hour, 
When  in  my  listenings  I  can  hear  no  sound, 
Save  the  low  earnest  voice  of  my  own  soul 
Calling  in  grief  to  Heaven,  I  would  invoke 
Thy  spirit  from  its  blessed  home,  to  hold 
Communion  with  thy  child. 

My  thought  retains 

No  vestige,  mother,  of  thy  form  or  face — 
Death  took  thee  from  me  long  ere  memory 


MY    MOTHER. 

Could  paint  the  image  of  thy  loveliness 

Upon  my  infant  soul.     Yet  many  friends 

Have  told  me  thou  wast  beautiful  beyond 

The  poet's  twilight  imaging.     They  say 

That  thy  fair,  blue-veined  forehead  nestled  'mid 

The  dark  brown  clusters  of  thy  tresses,  like 

The  spirit  of  sweet  purity  among 

The  clouds  of  earthly  gloom  ;  that  thy  black  eye. 

Calm,  proud,  and  beautiful,  beamed  with  the  pure 

High  visions  of  thy  soul,  as  midnight  waves 

Gleam  with  the  flashing  star-beams  ;  that  thy  cheek, 

For  ever  living  with  the  blended  hues 

Of  rose  and  lily,  seemed  to  glow  with  more 

Than  earthly  beauty  ;  and  that  thy  red  lips 

Took  added  witcheries  from  the  beaming  smiles, 

And  from  the  tones  of  gentle  melody 

That  ever  hung  around  them.     Ay,  I've  heard 

Full  oft  of  thy  entrancing  charms,  and  mused 

In  silence  on  them  till  my  soul  has  sketched 

A  picture  of  surpassing  loveliness, 

And  fondly  named  it  thee  ;  and  oh  I  feel 

I  could  for  ever  kneel  and  worship  it 


118  MY    MOTHER. 

In  wild  excess  of  love.     I  do  not  know 
That  e'er  I  heard  thy  voice,  yet  in  my  brain 
There  is  a  soft  mysterious  melody 
Far  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  sound  of  earth  ; 
And  I  have  dreamed  it  is  thy  gentle  tone 
Breathed  in  mine  ear  in  early  infancy 
And  lingering  faintly  still. 

My  mother  dear. 

When  the  high  mandate  came  that  bade  thee  take 
Farewell  of  this  dark  earth,  and  seek  thy  home 
Of  immortality  beyond  the  stars, 
Oh  did  no  feeling  of  regret  arise 
Within  thy  pure  and  parting  soul  ?     Hadst  thou 
No  torturing  fears,  sweet  mother,  for  thy  child 
Whom  thou  wast  leaving  in  her  helpless  years 
Amid  a  world  of  sin  ?     Hadst  thou  no  dread 
Lest  her  young  feet  should  wander  from  the  paths 
Of  truth,  when  she  should  hear  no  voice  of  thine 
To  warn  her  of  her  perils  ?     Mother,  now 
That  child  is  weary  of  life's  pilgrimage, 
Her  spirit  is  oppressed  on  this  dark  shore 


MY    MOTHER.  119 

Of  time  ;  the  burden  of  existence  falls 

Upon  a  heart  too  weak  and  faint  to  bear 

Its  cares  and  agonies  ;  and  oh,  she  longs 

To  come  to  thee,  and  weep  away  her  griefs 

Upon  thy  sainted  bosom.     Be  the  first, 

Oh  mother,  be  the  first  to  catch  the  sound 

Of  her  young  footsteps  through  the  shadowy  vale 

Of  death,  and  clasp  her  in  thy  blessed  arms 

In  thy  own  Eden. 

Mother,  from  thy  home 
Above,  look  down  in  pity  on  thy  child, 
Thy  lonely  orphan  wanderer.     Shelter  her 
With  thy  angelic  wing  in  her  sad  stay 
Upon  the  earth  ;  breathe  strength  from  thy  high  soul 
Into  her  soul ;  oh  speak  to  her  in  dreams, 
When  sleep  has  rent  her  earthly  fetters  ;  tell 
Her  spirit  of  the  bright,  the  better  land  ; 
And  keep  her  heart  in  all  its  wanderings  pure 
From  the  dark  stains  of  this  mortality. 

LOUISVILLE,  Oar.  25. 


&0  1.  SL  garridu 

OH  poet,  to  my  lone  and  swelling  heart 
How  gently  comes  the  message  sent  by  thine  ; 
It  speaks  to  me  of  all  I  know  thou  art, 

For  thy  high  soul  glows  in  each  burning  line. 
I  ne'er  have  met  thee  on  the  earth,  but  thou 

Hast  wakened  visions  that  will  long  remain, 
Shedding  their  holy  brightness  on  my  brow, 
And  haunting  with  their  glory  heart  and  brain. 

Yes,  poet,  to  my  soul,  as  to  thine  own, 

The  world  is  bright,  and  if  dark  grief  awhile 

Clouds  the  high  visions  of  my  spirit  lone, 
I  find  no  gloom  in  Nature's  blessed  smile. 


TO    ,T.     R.     BARRICK.  1 

The  flowers  still  blow  as  in  my  childhood's  years, 
The  sunset  hangs  as  lovely  on  the  sky, 

And  the  dear  moon  wakes  still  the  happy  tears 
Her  pale  face  wakened  in  the  years  gone  by. 

And  earth  is  brighter  still,  that  souls  like  thine 

Are  sent  by  Heaven  beneath  the  skies,  to  give 
To  cold  realities  a  tinge  divine, 

And  make  it  a  sweet  luxury  to  live. 
Such  spirits  lend  a  deep  ideal  glow 

To  wave,  to  wildwood,  rainbow,  star  and  flower, 
Charming  from  human  life  the  shades  of  woe 

By  the  strong  spell  of  their  mysterious  power. 

And  thou  hast  stolen  even  from  this  dull, 

Cold  heart  of  mine,  one-half  its  weight  of  pain, 
And  made  existence  almost  beautiful 

By  the  strange  magic  of  thy  heavenly  strain. 
Lured  by  thy  tones,  my  weeping  spirit  turns 

From  all  earth's  cares,  its  bitterness  and  strife, 
And,  leaning  on  thy  noble  spirit,  learns 

To  taste  the  glorious  ecstasies  of  life. 


122  TO    J.     R.     BARRICK. 

Oh,  earth  to  thee  must  be  a  Paradise, 

Where  birds  are  singing  ever  o'er  thy  head, 
Where  silver  fountains  picture  golden  skies, 

And  loveliest  flowers  spring  up  beneath  thy  tread. 
And  there  blest  spirits,  beautiful  and  bright, 

High  angel-natures,  love  with  thee  to  roam 
At  morn,  at  eve,  and  in  the  silent  night, 

And  talk  with  thee  of  thy  immortal  home. 


/^vH,  wearily,  most  wearily  through  life, 

The  orphan  girl  in  bitter  grief  must  go, 
Uncheered  amid  the  dark  and  fearful  strife 

A  cold  world  wages  with  the  child  of  woe  ; 
No  parent's  voice  to  soothe  with  sweet  control 
The  burning  tear-drops  bursting  from  her  soul. 

She's  desolate  on  earth,  and  she  must  bear 

The  conflict  of  mortality  alone  ; 
Nor  in  her  keenest  anguish  must  she  dare 

To  heave  a  sigh,  or.  breathe  one  sorrowing  .moan ; 
For  men  may  mock  the  sighs  and  groans  that  start 
From  the  recesses  of  a  breaking  heart ! 


124  THE    ORPHAN. 

And  when  disease  steals  fiercely  through  her  frame, 
And  she  is  lying  helpless,  pale,  and  weak — 

When  fever's  wild  and  desolating  flame 
Is  burning  on  her  brow  and  wasted  cheek, 

None  come  to  stand  beside  her  couch  and  lave 

Her  lip  and  forehead  with  the  cooling  wave. 

Yet,  oh,  there's  One  to  whom  she  still  may  turn, 
One  who  hath  power  to  soothe,  to  heal,  to  bless — 

The  great  All-Merciful,  who  will  not  spurn 
The  weeping  orphan  in  her  wretchedness  ; 

Yes,  she  may  lift  her  earnest  prayers  on  high 

To  Him  who  listens  to  the  raven's  cry. 

He  hears  her  pleading  tones  of  agony — 
He  sees  the  tears  her  lifted  eyes  that  fill, 

And  the  deep  wounds  that  bled  upon  the  tree 
Are  for  the  lovely  orphan  bleeding  still ! 

He  will  be  with  her  in  her  sore  distress, 

A  friend — a  father  to  the  fatherless. 


THE    ORPHAN.  125 

Then  lift  thy  head,  poor  orphan,  in  thy  grief, 

Turn  from  the  world,  and  fix  thy  thoughts  above — 

Thou  hast  a  Father  who  can  give  relief, 
And  love  thee  with  a  deep,  immortal  love  ! 

He  will  uphold  thee  on  life's  stormy  sea, 

And  make  thee  blessed  in  eternity. 


ON    RECEIVING   A    MAGNOLIA   FLOWER    FROM 
THE    BEAUTIFUL    SALLIE    W. 

T  LOVE  to  look  on  thee,  oh  glorious  flower, 

The  brightest  nursling  of  the  beam  and  shower  ; 
The  soft,  rich  perfumes  round  thy  fairy  heart 
To  soul  and  sense  an  ecstasy  impart ; 
And  thy  young  leaves  of  snowy  whiteness  gleam 
With  the  strange  beauty  of  a  wild  sweet  dream. 

There  is  a  magic  in  thy  leaves,  bright  flower, 
That  thrills  me  with  its  deep  and  mystic  power. 


IMPROMPTU.  .127 

• 

And  o'er  the  calm  thoughts  slumbering  in  my  soul, 
$teals  with  a  soft  and  beautiful  control, 
The  glowing  visions  of  my  life  to  bless 
With  a  deep  spell  of  joy  and  loveliness. 

Oh  bright  magnolia,  thou  hast  ever  stood 

The  queen  of  all  the  floral  sisterhood, 

And  she,  thy  giver,  in  her  pride  of  place, 

Is  crowned  the  queen  of  beauty,  love,  and  grace  ; 

Ay,  what  thou  art  within  the  garden-bowers 

Is  she,  thy  giver,  among  human  flowers. 

Yet  she  is  far  more  beautiful  than  thou, 
Thy  leaves  are  not  so  white  as  her  white  brow  ; 
'Twere  vain  within  thy  perfumed  depths  to  seek 
Such  tints  as  live  upon  her  heavenly  cheek  ; 
And  the  dear  witcheries  of  her  blue  eye  glow 
More  lovely  than  thy  cup  of  spotless  snow. 

In  thy  sweet  incense-breath,  there  is  no  spell 
Like  those  that  round  her  presence  ever  dwell ; 


128  IMPROMPTU. 

^ 

Thy  gentle  beauty  is  a  thing  to  keep 
For  ever  in  the  spirit  pure  and  deep  ; 
But  she  is  God's  own  loveliest  blossom,  given 
To  tell  us  of  the  garden-bowers  of  Heaven. 

Oh,  thou  and  she  were  both  sent  here  to  bless 
The  earth  with  beauty,  light,  and  loveliness  ; 
And  it  was  well  thy  petals  should  expand, 
Beneath  the  influence  of  her  fostering  hand, 
For  now  thy  leaves  dear  thoughts  of  her  awake, 
And  thou  art  lovelier  for  her  lovely  sake. 

I  look  on  thee,  and  blessed  thoughts  of  her 
Within  the  depths  of  my  sad  spirit  stir  ; 
I've  gazed  on  her  as  now  I  gaze  on  thee, 
Till  my  full  soul  gushed  o'er  with  ecstasy, 
And  her  wild  beauty  has  become  a  part 
For  ever  of  my  burning  brain  and  heart. 

Ah,  dearest  blossom,  as  with  sorrowing  eye 
I  watch  thee  fade,  and  feel  thou  soon  must  die, 


IMPROMPTU.  129 

I  weep  for  thee,  but  still  'tis  joy  to  know 

That  her  pure  soul  will  keep  its  heavenly  glow. 

Passing  at  length  to  yon  blue  sky  afar, 

The  brightest  flower,  changed  to  the  brightest  star. 


fife. 

,  life  is  very,  very  beautiful 

To  my  young  heart.     No  clouds  are  on  its  sky, 
Save  those  the  rainbow  crowns  ;  no  waters  sweep 
Beneath,  save  those  that  give  the  sky's  soft  blue 
Back  from  their  tranquil  bosoms  ;  and  no  winds 
Fly  o'er  the  fresh  green  earth,  save  those  that  come 
To  bear  sweet  incense  on  their  dewy  wings, 
To  fan  my  glowing  temples,  and  to  lift 
The  light  curl  from  my  cheek.     The  many  stars 
Shine  like  rich  blessings  on  me ;  countless  flowers, 
With  all  their  soft  blue  eyes,  look  love  to  mine  ; 
And  myriad  red  and  golden  fruits  hang  low, 
And  seem  to  woo  my  hand  to  pluck  them.     Life 
To  me  is  all  my  heart  has  ever  dreamed 


LIFE. 

Of  Eden  land  ;  it  is  a  blooming  bower, 
And  I  its  merriest,  happiest  singing-bird. 
They  tell  us  of  a  brighter,  better  clime, 
Beyond  the  star-lit  azure,  but  I  fain 
Would  live  for  ever  on  this  earth." 

Thus  sang 

At  morn  a  wild  and  joyous-hearted  girl, 
Upon  a  flowery  lea.     Her  loosened  hat 
Was  swinging  on  her  shoulders  ;  her  white  hand 
Strayed  'mid  the  sunny  ringlets  of  her  hair  ; 
Her  blue  eyes  glistened  with  her  happy  dreams  ; 
And  sweet  smiles  played,  like  honey  bees,  around 
Her  parted  cherry  lips.     Young  roses  lay 
Upon  her  budding  bosom ;    and  glad  thoughts 
Were  springing  in  her  heart— sweet  spirit-flowers, 
More  fresh,  more  bright,  more  beautiful,  than  those 
That  bloomed  upon  her  breast. 

Old  Time  moved  on, 
Smiling  upon  the  gay  and  lovely  girl, 


132  LIFE. 

And  bearing  for  her,  on  his  gentle  plumes, 
All  she  could  ask  or  crave. 

A  few  brief  years, 

And  Time's  sweet  smile  was  changed  to  frowns.    He  crushed 
The  dewy  roses  on  that  young  girl's  breast, 
And  in  her  heart.     The  waving  of  his  wing 
Waked  a  chill  blast,  from  which  she  shrank  away, 
Looking  in  vain  for  refuge.     One  by  one, 
The  friends  and  guardians  of  her  earlier  years 
Fell  at  her  side ;  and  one  by  one  their  graves 
Were  watered  with  her  bitter  tears.     She  felt 
That  she  was  all  alone,  a  wanderer 
Upon  the  desert  of  the  world.     Her  voice, 
So  often  answered  in  her  happier  hours 
By  tones  of  love  and  friendship,  now  came  back, 
But  with  a  wailing  echo  to  her  sad 
And  straining  ear.     All  bowed  in  soul,  she  pined 
In  deep  and  utter  solitude.     Her  hair, 
That  erst  had  wantoned  on  each  passing  gale 
So  bright  and  free,  was  plainly  gathered  o'er 


LIFE. 

Her  pale  and  stricken  brow.     Her  eye,  that  once 
Had  danced  so  wildly  to  the  melody 
Of  her  own  soul's  sweet  fancies,  looked  through  tears. 
Yet  sparkled  with  the  strange  mysterious  light 
That  tells  of  coming  death.     A  deep-drawn  sigh, 
More  dismal  than  the  sobbing  of  the  wind 
Through  the  lone  ruins  of  an  ancient  tomb, 
Told  that  her  heart  was  broken.     And  as  there 
She  bowed  her  forehead  low  upon  her  hand, 
Her  anguish  thus  found  utterance. 

"What  is  life? 

Oh,  what  is  life  ?     A  sigh,  a  tear,  a  frown, 
A  shadow  and  a  mockery  !     The  light  clouds, 
iat  moved  so  sweetly  o'er  my  morning  sky, 
xlave  darkened  to  a  tempest ;  the  bright  waves 
That  caught  the  morning  and  the  evening  beam, 
Wear  midnight's  sable  hue,  and  break  and  roar 
In  yeasty  wrath  around  me  ;  and  the  winds 
That  used  to  linger  on  my  floating  curls, 
And  with  their  dew-lips  kiss  my  rosy  cheeks, 


134  LIFE. 

Have  turned  to  winter  blasts,  and  fiercely  sweep 

Cold,  cold  and  bitter  o'er  me.     Not  a  flower 

Blooms  in  my  cheerless  pathway  ;  not  a  bird 

Sings  in  my  lonely  ear  ;  not  one  dear  voice 

Calls  to  me  in  my  grief ;  and  not  one  star 

Shines  on  this  Avide  and  awful  waste.     My  life 

Is  very,  very  desolate.     0  God  ! 

Thou  stay  and  helper  of  the  weary  heart ! 

To  Thee  I  kneel  in  agony,  and  pray 

That  Thou  wilt  take  me  from  this  dreary  world 

To  rest  for  ever  in  Thy  smile  of  love." 


AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED  TO  MRS.  L.  A.  W. 
OF    LITTLE    ROCK. 

/~\H  how  serenely  soft  that  pale  high  brow, 

O'er  which  her  clustering  tresses  stray,  her  eye, 
Dissolving  in  its  sweet  blue  tenderness, 
As  from  its  depths  a  mother's  holy  love 
Is  gleaming  like  the  light  of  heaven,  her  lips 
Just  parted  as  the  low  and  earnest  prayer 
Of  angel  purity  dies  soft  away 
In  wild,  sweet  music.     O'er  her  infant  now 
In  slumber  "  lightly  bound,"  her  gentle  form 
Is  bending  low,  while  blessed,  heaven-born  hopes 
Are  beaming  forth  from  her  unshadowed  heart, 


136  THE    YOUNG    MOTHER. 

And  lighting  up  her  pale  and  placid  face 
As  beautifully  as  the  sunlight  glows 
And  trembles  through  a  holy  crystal  fane. 
Close  to  her  breast,  her  gently  throbbing  breast, 
Her  young  babe  nestles  as  a  thought  of  love 
Clings  to  the  human  soul.     One  little  hand 
Is  pressed  in  hers,  and  now  a  soft  sweet  smile 
Is  stealing  o'er  its  lovely  cherub-face. 
Gently  she  whispers  to  it  of  its  dear 
And  absent  father,  and  the  tear-drop  bright 
Is  quivering  on  her  eyelid  like  the  dew 
On  the  blue  violet's  petal.     And  when  soft 
Sweet  slumber  folds  its  calm,  mysterious  wing 
Upon  her  cherub's  little  breast,  its  quick 
Low  breathings  fall  upon  her  listening  ear 
Like  notes  of  heaven. 

Young  mother,  'tis  thy  first 
Bright  joy,  thy  first  deep  care — oh  may  it  prove 
Thy  latest  blessing.     Since  we  parted  last 
Full  many  changes  have  passed  o'er  our  lives, 


THE    YOUNG    MOTHER.  137 

New  ties  around  thy  pure  and  noble  heart 

Are  twining,  and  they  give  to  thy  young  life 

A  bright  wild  charm.     Thus  may  it  ever  be 

To  thee — may  all  the  bright  and  glittering  links, 

Which  hold  thee  here  a  happy  prisoner 

On  Time's  dark  shore,  still  form  a  blessed  chain 

To  bind  thy  spirit  also  to  the  loved 

Within  the  angel  world.     Ah,  I  can  look 

With  tearful  joy  upon  thy  added  ties 

To  life,  and  feel  within  my  heart  my  own 

Are  lessening  fast.     Oh  may  thy  bud  of  love 

Expand,  and  prove  thy  deep  heart's  sweetest  flower, 

And  may  ye  both,  in  God's  own  Paradise, 

Be  glorious  blossoms  on  His  Tree  of  Life. 

LOUISVILLE,  JUNE  2J. 


JL,  of 


/^\H  minstrel  of  the  magic  lyre,  thy  soul 

Is  full  of  fancies  high  and  beautiful. 
I  ne'er  have  seen  thee,  yet  thy  gentle  thoughts 
And  fairy  dreams  have  wakened  in  my  heart, 
A  feeling  so  delicious,  so  divine, 
So  soft,  so  dreamy,  earnest  and  intense, 
That  I  have  called  it  love.     Oh  yes,  'tis  love, 
High  spirit-love,  my  young  soul  feels  for  thine 
A  sweet  emotion,  fluttering  in  my  breast, 
With  not  one  tinge  of  earth  upon  its  pure 
And  bright  ethereal  plumage. 

Minstrel,  oft, 

Full  oft,  at  twilight's  calm  and  holy  time, 
I've  mused  upon  thy  wild  enchanting  lays 


TO    C.     W.     A.,     OF    TAYLORSVILLE.  139 

Till  I  have-blent  a  haunting  thought  of  thee 

With  the  Jeep  spirit  of  that  sacred  hour. 

And,  in  tliy  lofty  inspiration,  thou 

So  oft  hast  pictured  visions  that  have  lived, 

And  breathed,  and  glowed,  and  brightened  in  my  heart. 

That  I  have  named  thee,  in  excess  of  love, 

My  spirit's  own  interpreter. 

Inspired 

And  gifted  poet,  thou  hast  said  the  griefs 
That  shade  my  young  and  lonely  life,  should  wake 
A  sympathy  within  thy  noble  heart. 
Oh  for  that  sympathy  !     My  spirit  yearns 
To  see  and  bless  thee  for  thy  kindly  words. 
Warmly  and  fondly  do  I  welcome  thee, 
My  soul's  true  friend.     Ah,  yes,  we  will  be  friends  ; 
Though  we  may  never  meet,  the  sunset  blush, 
The  lovely  vesper  star,  the  sweet  pale  moon, 
The  flowers,  the  waves,  the  zephyr,  and  the  dew, 
And  all  the  thousand  thrilling  harmonies 
Of  Nature's  holy  lyre,  shall  link  our  souls 


\ 

140          TO    C.     W.    A.,     OF    TAYLORSVILLE. 

In  sweet  companionship. 

It  matters  not 

That  we  have  never  met,  and  may  not  meet 
In  all  our  wanderings  here,  for  I  shall  know 
And  love  thee,  in  the  bright,  the  better  world. 
Ay,  I  shall  know  thee,  for  my  musing  soul, 
Sleeping  and  waking,  oft  has  pictured  thee 
On  fancy's  glowing  canvas,  and  I  feel 
That  truth  is  in  the  picture. 

When  my  soul 

Is  revelling  in  joys  and  ecstasies, 
I'll  send  it  laden  with  soft,  rosy  dreams, 
To  hold  sweet  intercourse  with  thee,  and  when 
My  thoughts  and  visions  are  of  heaven,  thy  name 
Shall  oft  be  spoken  in  my  earnest  prayers. 


/^VH  thou  hast  called  me  thy  own  sister  dear, 

And  my  wild  heart,  o'erfilled  with  burning  love, 
Hath  sprung,  as  springs  the  lark  at  early  morn, 
To  greet  the  golden  beam  of  day's  proud  star ; 
Or,  as  the  pale  and  fainting  floweret  turns 
Its  wilted  leaves  to  the  refreshing  dew. 
Dost  ask  to  read  this  wayward  heart  of  mine, 
To  scan  its  agonies,  its  wild,  deep  griefs  1 
Would'st  thou  not  turn  away  from  me,  when  o'er 
That  volume  dark  thine  eye  should  roam  ?     Oh,  say, 
Could'st  love  me  still,  friend  of  my  darkened  years  ? 
Life's  weary  sands  are  failing  fast.     When  thou 
Lookest  upon  this  still  and  haughty  face, 
Dost  thou  e'er  dream  that  passion's  maddening  tide 


142  T0    A    FRIEND. 

All  wildly  rolls  below  ?     Ah,  dost  thou  dream 
That  smiles,  which  flit  like  golden  shadows  o'er 
>My  careless  brow,  have  lost  the  power  to  soothe 
The  wild  and  dark  unrest  of  mind  and  heart  ? 
That  like  a  fiendish  power,  ambition  works 
Within  my  brain,  and  fiercely  riots  on 
My  warm  and  bounding  soul  ?     Each  energy 
Of  my  strong  nature,  now  is  bent  to  gain 
Fame's  lofty  summit,  and  I  may  not  stop 
Life's  flowers  to  gather.     Better  then  that  thou 
Should'st  leave  me  now,  and  see  me  nevermore. 
Ne'er  may  we  hope,  within  this  world  of  woe, 
The  separate  currents  of  our  lives  to  blend ; 
Yet  we  have  met  and  loved,  and  ere  we  part, 
I  fain  would  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  brow, 
And  bless  thee  purely,  deeply,  fervently, 
And  ask  thee,  in  the  pure  depths  of  thy  soul, 
One  flower  to  keep  for  ever  'mid  life's  stern 
And  rushing  conflict — the  deep,  earnest  love 
Of  her  whom  thou  hast  called  thy  sister  dear. 

LOUISVILLE,  KT. 


gwtai  larbitan— »i|rm&  ^nnl-mmfy  an* 
grofcen  Jtanrt. 

A  SCENE  FROM  BULWER'S  ZANONI. 

TT  was  the  close  of  day  upon  the  shores 

Of  beauteous  Naples.     The  low  murmuring  waves 
That  rose  and  fell  upon  the  "  Siren's  sea," 
Gleamed  like  pale  rubies  in  the  sunset  glow ; 
The  dim  isles,  veiled  in  mists  of  silver,  rose 
Far  through  the  dim  and  shadowy  atmosphere; 
The  pale,  sweet  stars  shone  calm  and  beautiful 
In  the  blue  diadem  of  night,  and  shapes 
Of  loveliness  and  beauty  seemed  to  steal 
Forth  from  the  soft  and  deepening  shades,  as  Love, 


144  BROKEN    BARB  I  TON. 

And  star-eyed  Hope,  and  pensive  Memory 
Steal  from  the  twilight  of  the  heart.     Afar, 
Like  a  huge  column  moving  in  the  heavens, 
Soared  the  gray  smdke  of  old  Vesuvius, 
From  its  broad  base  of  lurid  flame  ;  the  shaft 
Of  Maro's  tomb  above  the  beetling  cliff 
Was  drawn  against  the  deep  blue  sky,  and  soft 
The  scattered  gardens  of  the  Caprea  shone, 
Like  "wrecks  of  Paradise."     No  human  voice 
Broke  the  deep  spell  of  silence  and  repose, 
That  rested  like  a  calm,  mysterious  dream 
Upon  the  landscape,  yet  the  air  still  seemed 
All  musical,  and  strangely  eloquent 
With  the  hushed  cadences  and  passion-sighs 
Of  deep  and  burning  love. 

Ah  !  'mid  this  scene 
Of  loveliness  and  deep  serenity, 
The  traces  of  despair,  and  woe,  and  death 
Were  darkly  visible.     The  twilight's  last 
Sweet,  rosy  smile  of  gentleness  and  love 


BROKEN    BARBITON.  145 

Stole  softly,  calmly,  beautifully  through 

The  parted  vines  that  bloomed  and  clustered  o'er 

The  window  of  an  humble  cottage  home, 

And  fell  upon  the  white  brow  of  the  dead, 

As  human  love  falls  vainly  on  the  heart 

Of  cold  despair.     Alone  the  minstrel  slept 

In  his  unbreathing  rest.     Upon  the  floor, 

Beside  him,  lay  the  cherished  laurel-wreath. 

His  only  wealth,  the  guerdon  of  his  toils, 

The  one  dear  boon  for  which,  through  weary  years 

Of  bitter  sorrows,  he  had  patiently 

Struggled  and  suffered,  pouring  forth  his  wild, 

Deep  soul  of  music,  while  keen  agony 

Was  tearing  his  great  heart.     There,  there  it  lay 

All  pale  and  withering,  like  the  throbless  brow 

Whence  it  had  fallen. 

There,  beside  him  too,  . 
Broken  and  silent  lay  his  barbiton, 
His  own  familiar,  in  whose  spirit  tones 
His  spirit  e'er  had  found  in  joy  and  grief 
7 


146  BROKEN    BARBITON. 

A  faithful  echo.     It  had  been  his  friend, 
True  and  unfailing,  'mid  the  darkened  wrecks 
Of  human  friendships.     It  had  been  his  love, 
His  child,  his  life,  and  his  religion.     He 
Had  talked  to  it  at  twilight's  wizard  hour, 
The  hour  that  now  closed  over  it  and  him, 
And  it  had  answered  him  in  tones  of  more 
Than  earthly  sympathy.     And  he  had  won, 
With  its  dear  aid,  the  wreath  so  fondly  deemed 
The  emblem  of  fame's  immortality. 
But  now  the  dust  was  on  its  loosened  chords, 
That,  like  his  own  dark  tresses,  swept  the  floor, 
To  sound  no  more,  save  when  perchance  the  wind, 
Straying  at  nightfall  through  that  ruined  cot, 
Should  gently  stir  them  with  its  breath  of  sighs, 
To  one  low  wail,  one  melancholy  moan, 
For  him  who  so  had  loved  them. 

'Twas  a  scene 

To  move  the  heart  to  tears.     The  world  around, 
The  air,  the  earth,  the  sky,  the  ocean,  seemed 


BROKEN    BARBITON.  147 

Flooded  with  beauty  ;  every  isle  that  gleamed 

In  the  deep  sea,  and  every  sweet  star  isle 

That  glittered  in  the  blue  sky,  seemed  a  bright 

Calypso  of  the  heart,  yet  in  that  lone 

And  silent  cottage  home,  the  minstrel  pale — 

The  wreath  that  he  had  purchased  with  the  cries, 

The  wild  shrieks  of  his. spirit — and  the  lyre, 

The  sole  companion  of  his  life  of  toil, 

His  heart's  dear  idol — mouldered  side  by  side, 

Unheeded  by  the  careless  race  of  men. 

LOCISVIIXE,  FEBRUARY,  1852. 


T  LE AKNED  within  myself  to  live.     I  saw, 

E'en  in  my  childhood,  that  the  heart's  bright  buds 
Withered  and  faded  at  the  touch.     I  turned 
From  all  life's  empty,  heartless  mockeries, 
And  wept  my  griefs  away  on  Nature's  breast. 
To  me  was  given  the  deep  and  earnest  love 
Of  holy  solitude.     I  strayed  alone 
By  rock  and  stream,  and  through  the  forest  depths, 
And  found  a  sweet  and  dear  companionship 
In  every  sight  and  sound  that  greeted  me 
In  all  my  wayward  wanderings. 

I  learned 
Glad  music  from  the  lark's  free,  gushing  song, 


THE    ORPHAN'S    DREAM    OF    FAME.          149 

And  my  heart's  sad  and  mournful  minstrelsy 

Found  sweet  interpretation  in  the  low 

And  gentle  wailings  of  the  stricken  dove. 

My  spirit  rocked  upon  the  swinging  tops 

Of  the  tall  oaks  ;  it  danced  upon  the  waves 

That  leaped  in  light  and  music  or  in  wrath 

Upon  the  shore  ;  it  rode  upon  the  winds, 

Soft  whispering  to  the  softly  whispering  leaves, 

Or  pealing  like  some  deep-toned  instrument 

Through  the  green  banners  of  the  wood ;  it  sailed 

Upon  the  clouds  that  floated  beautiful 

Or  dark  with  tempest ;  and  it  wandered  oft 

Above,  to  hold  its  joyous  revelry 

With  all  the  thousand  spirit-shapes  that  bathed 

Their  purple  plumage  in  the  rosy  waves 

Flooding  the  sunset.     My  dear  mother's  smile, 

Caught  by  the  stars  from  Eden,  sweetly  shone 

In  their  pure  light  on  my  uplifted  eyes, 

And  her  soft  words  of  cheer  came  to  my  soul 

On  every  gale  of  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve, 

And  holy  midnight.     I  was  happy  then, 


150          THE    ORPHAN'S    DREAM    OF    FAME. 

Ay,  bappy,  my  lost  mother  was  in  heaven, 
But  Nature  was  my  mother  on  the  earth, 
And  both  seemed  e'er  to  love  me  well. 

At  length 

There  came  a  change.     The  maddening  dream  of  fame, 
The  wish  to  shine  among  earth's  proudest,  took 
Possession  of  my  soul.     No  more  I  loved 
The  voice  of  birds,  the  shouting  of  the  stream, 
And  the  green  surging  of  the  woods.     I  bowed 
In  seeming  admiration  of  the  throng, 
And  felt  my  cheek  burn  and  my  pulses  leap 
To  the  vile  breath  of  those  I  could  but  hate 
Within  my  secret  soul.     The  sneering  thought 
That  started  fiercely  upward  from  my  heart, 
Brightened  to  smiles  upon  my  lips  ;  my  brain 
Grew  dizzy,  and  the  tear  was  in  my  eye, 
If  with  rude  hand  my  spirit's  chords  were  jarred 
By  those  I  longed  to  spurn  beneath  my  feet. 
I  wildly  struggled  for  the  world's  applause, 
But  trembled  at  the  faintest  word  of  blame. 


THE  ORPHAN'S  DREAM  OF  FAME,    15 

As  'twere  the  voice  of  destiny.     I  won 

The  laurel  crown,  and  with  exulting  heart 

I  felt  its  thrilling  pressure  on  my  brow : 

But  ah  !  a  hreath  of  poison  from  the  crowd 

Passed  o'er  its  blooming  leaves,  and  nought  remained 

But  dust  upon  my  temples.     A  bright  name 

Was  my  soul's  idol,  but  a  feeble  blow 

From  hands  unworthy,  shattered  and  cast  down 

That  wildly  Avorshipped  idol  from  its  shrine, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Now,  alas  ! 

Joy,  love,  hope,  pride,  ambition,  all  are  dead 
Within  my  breast.     I  smile  in  bitterness, 
To  think  with  what  a  madness  of  the  soul 
I  sought  a  worthless  bauble.     Like  a  gleam 
Of  moonlight  from  the  mountain,  or  the  flash 
Of  an  expiring  meteor  from  the  deep, 
Or  the  red  glow  of  sunset  from  the  west, 
That  dream  of  fame  has  vanished  from  my  life, 
And  now  I  feel  no  pang  of  vain  regret 
That  it  has  perished  thus. 


152          THE    ORPHAN'S    DREAM    OF    FAME. 

But  I  look  back 

With  tears  and  sighs  on  the  departed  years, 
When  breeze  and  billow  chanted  to  my  soul 
Their  morning  hymn  and  evening  psalm  ;  when  soft 
And  beautiful  night's  silver  crescent  shone 
Upon  my  spirit,  and  when  all  the  stars 
Were  to  my  eyes  God's  living  poetry, 
Traced  by  His  hand  upon  the  sky's  blue  scroll. 
Ah  !  I  am  twice  an  orphan,  for,  alas  1 
My  mother  Nature  now  is  dead  to  me. 

LOUISVILLE,  1852. 


$,  fefk  to  a 


ON   THE   EVE  OF   HIS   DEPARTUKE    FOR 
EUROPE. 

rPHOU'LT  leave  us  !  o'er  the  wild  waves  of  the  deep, 

Where  winds  in  fierce  unrest  for  ever  sweep, 
In  dim,  and  dark,  and  distant  lands  to  roam, 
A  weary  wanderer  from  thy  Western  home. 
Friend  of  my  father,  my  full  heart  is  stirred, 
And,  ere  thou  go,  'twould  breathe  a  parting  word, 
And  bid  thee  linger  not  on  those  far  shores  • 
From  those  who  love  thee  in  their  hearts'  deep  cores. 
I've  loved  —  I  love  thee,  and  in  earnest  prayer 
To  Heaven,  I  ask,  that,  when  oppressed  with  care, 
7* 


154  A    TRIFLE    TO    A    FRIEND. 

Where  Albion's  gleaming  cliffs  are  floating  high, 
Like  snowy  clouds  against  her  pale  blue  sky, 
Thou  there  may'st  find  a  gentle  friend,  like  me, 
To  love,  to  tend,  to  guard  and  cherish  thee ; 
Soft,  tender,  true,  affectionate,  and  kind, 
As  the  pure  thoughts  of  thy  own  heart  and  mind. 
Thou  goest  forth  with  golden  hopes,  that  gleam 
Like  flashing  sunshine  on  the  morning  stream — 
May  those  bright  hopes  ne'er  melt  away  in  tears, 
But  glow  and  brighten  through  the  coming  years. 
Whether  thou  ling'rest  where  Italian  skies 
Shine  ever  with  their  glorious  Eden-dyes, 
Where  the  deep  soul  of  love  all  wildly  gleams 
In  the  mild  lustre  of  the  moon's  sweet  beams, 
And  where  bright  lakes  in  their  untroubled  rest, 
Smile  like  young  dimples  upon  Nature's  breast ; 
Or  where  the  mountains  of  old  Switzerland 
Tower  with  their  glaciers,  stern;  and  wild,  and  grand ; 
Or  'mid  sweet  Erin's  emerald  vales  and  bowers, 
Or  in  gay  France  to  "  chase  the  glowing  hours  " 
With  merry  jest,  and  laugh,  and  song,  and  dance, 
Forgetful  of  dark  time  and  dreary  chance ; 


A    TRIFLE    TO    A    FRIEND.  155 

I  pray  thee,  'mid  thy  wanderings,  still  to  keep 

Within  thy  memory  beautiful  and  deep, 

A  gentle  thought  of  me,  a  holy  spell 

In  thy  true  soul — God  bless  thee,  and  farewell. 


Irn  0f  %  part 


in  my  breast  there  is  a  sacred  urn 
I  ever  guard  with  holiest  care,  and  keep 
From  the  cold  world's  intrusion.     It  is  filled 
With  dear  and  lovely  treasures,  that  I  prize 
Above  the  gems  that  sparkle  in  the  vales 
Of  Orient  climes,  or  glitter  in  the  crowns 
Of  sceptred  kings. 

The  priceless  wealth  of  life 
Within  that  urn  is  gathered.     All  the  bright 
And  lovely  jewels  that  the  years  have  dropped 
Around  me  from  their  pinions,  in  their  swift 
And  noiseless  flight  to  old  Eternity, 
Are  treasured  there.     A  thousand  buds  and  flowers, 


THE    URN    OF    THE    HEART.  157 

That  the  cool  dews  of  life's  young  morning  bathed, 

That  its  soft  gales  fanned  with  their  gentle  wings, 

And  that  its  genial  sunbeams  warmed  to  life, 

And  fairy  beauty  'mid  the  melodies 

Of  founts  and  singing  birds,  He  hoarded  there, 

Dead,  dead,  for  ever  dead  !  but,  oh,  as  bright 

And  beautiful  to  me,  as  when  they  beamed 

With  Nature's  radiant  jewelry  of  dew. 

And  they  have  more  than  mortal  sweetness  now, 

For  the  dear  breath  of  loved  ones,  loved  and  lost, 

Is  mingling  with  their  holy  perfume. 


A  very  miser,  day  and  night  I  hide 

The  hoarded  riches  of  my  dear  heart-urn. 

Oft  at  the  midnight's  calm  and  silent  hour, 

When  not  a  tone  of  living  nature  seems 

To  rise  from  all  the  lone  and  sleeping  earth, 

I  lift  the  lid  softly  and  noiselessly, 

Lest  some  dark,  wandering  spirit  of  the  air 

Perchance  should  catch  with  his  quick  ear  the  sound, 


158  THE    URN    OF    THE    HEART. 

And  steal  my  treasures.     With,  a  glistening  eye 
And  leaping  pulse,  I  tell  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Musing  on  each,  and  hallow  it  with  smiles, 
And  tears,  and  sighs,  and  fervent  blessings. 

&&?.  Then 

With  soul  as  proud  as  if  yon  broad  blue  sky, 
With  all  its  bright  and  burning  stars  were  mine, 
But  with  a  saddened  heart,  I  close  the  lid, 
And  once  again  return  to  busy  life, 
To  play  my  part  amid  its  mockeries. 


E  twilight  now  is  blushing  o'er  the  earth — 
The  west  is  glowing  like  a  garden,  rich 
With  Summer's  many-tinted  blooms  ;  the  flowers 
Of  earth  hold  up  their  fairy  cups  to  catch 
The  softly  falling  dew-drops  ;  the  bright  stars 
Are  set  like  glorious  diamonds  on  the  dark 
Blue  drapery  of  the  halls  of  heaven ;  the  pale 
Sweet  moon,  like  some  young  angel  of  the  air, 
Floats  from  the  east  upon  her  silver  wing  ; 
Eve's  golden  clouds  hang  low — and  thin,  white  mists 
Rise  silently  and  beautifully  up 
Through  the  calm  atmosphere.     Serenity 
And  loveliness  and  beauty  are  abroad 
O'er  the  whole  world  of  nature. 


160  RECOLLECTIONS. 

At  this  hour. 

When  all  the  dark,  wild  passions  of  the  breast 
Are  hushed  and  quelled  by  Nature's  spell  of  power, 
When  every  wayward  feeling  is  rebuked 
And  chastened  by  the  blended  influence 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  I've  stolen  forth  alone 
Beneath  the  blue  and  glorious-  sky,  to  hold 
Communion  with  the  golden  hours  now  gone 
Into  the  past  eternity. 

My  heart 

Is  very  soft  to-night,  and  joys  long  past 
Shine  through  the  silver  mists  of  memory, 
Like  sweet  stars  of  the  soul.     My  brow  is  flushed, 
My  bosom  throbs,  and  blessed  tears  well  up 
From  my  heart's  unsealed  fountain,  as  I  see 
Through  the  pale  shadows  of  the  years,  the  home 
Where  first  I  felt  the  sweefc,  bewildering  bliss 
Of  new  existence.     Softly,  through  the  deep 
Green  foliage  of  the  grove,  the  beautiful 
White  cottage  peeps  with  its  thick-blooming  vines, 


RECOLLECTIONS.  161 

And  in  the  distance  the  still  church-yard,  where 

Repose  the  cold,  unthrobbing  hearts  of  those 

I  loved  in  childhood,  lifts  its  marble  shafts 

Beneath  the  drooping  willows.     I  behold 

The  shaded  paths  where  my  young  footsteps  strayed 

To  gather  wild  flowers  at  the  morning  tide, 

And  for  a  few  brief  moments  once  again 

I  seem  to  wander  through  the  dear  old  wood. 

The  birds  sing  round  me,  the  dark  forest  pines, 

Stirred  by  the  breeze,  make  music  like  the  low 

Faint  murmurs  of  the  sea,  my  playmates  shout 

Beside  me,  and  my  mother's  music  call 

Of  gentle  love  is  in  my  ear. 

Oh,  there, 

In  that  sweet  home,  I  cherished  fairy  dreams 
Of  happiness,  and  all  my  being  wore 
A  glow  of  deep,  ideal  loveliness. 
My  vanished  childhood  rises  to  my  view 
In  pale  and  melancholy  beauty.     Life 
Since  then  hath  been  but  desolate.     Alas  ! 


162  RECOLLECTIONS. 

What  heart-chords  have  been  broken,  what  bright  dreams 

Been  shadowed  by  the  hue  of  grief.     No  more 

The  Egeria  of  my  spirit- worship  haunts 

The  grove  and  wood.     No  charm  can  woo  her  back, 

She  will  not  hear  my  call,  she  answers  not 

The  witching  spell  of  fancy.     It  is  not 

That  nature  has  grown  old.     Her  skies  are  still 

As  blue,  her  trees  as  green,  her  dews  as  soft, 

Her  flowers  as  sweet,  her  clouds  as  beautiful, 

Her  birds,  her  waves,  her  minds  as  musical 

As  when  I  was  a  child — Alas  !  the  change 

Is  in  my  heart. 

Oh,  blessed  memories 

Of  home  !  ye  are  the  worshipped  household  gods 
Upon  my  spirit's  altar.     Vanished  years  ! 
Ye  are  the  dew-drops  that  my  spirit's  flowers 
Enfold  within  their  petals.     Years  have  passed 
Since  that  all-mournful  day,  when,  with  a  sad 
And  breaking  heart,  and  streaming  eyes,  I  left 
The  scenes  of  childhood,  and  went  forth  to  find 


RECOLLECTIONS.  163 

A  home  amid  the  stranger  crowds,  where  I 

Have  learned  to  wear  the  mask  that  others  wear, 

To  smile  while  agony  is  in  my  soul. 

Yet  at  an  hour  like  this,  when  Nature  glows 

With  deepest  loveliness,  when  earth  and  heaven 

Unite  to  woo  my  heart  from  its  retreat 

Of  gloom  and  sorrow,  I  can  wander  back 

To  quench  my  faint  and  sinking  spirit's  thirst 

At  young  life's  gushing  fountains,  and  forget 

That  I  am  not  once  more  a  happy  child. 


taring 


fTIHOU  wilt  not  leave  me,  Love,  to  pine  alone 

Upon  the  dreary  desert  of  the  world. 
Thou  wilt  not,  must  not,  nay,  thou  canst  not  die, 
And  leave  me  here,  a  lonely,  withering  flower, 
Torn  from  its  parent  stem  and  torn  from  thee, 
Its  dear  flower-mate,  and  thrown  upon  the  cold 
Unsympathizing  earth  to  sigh  away 
Its  breath  upon  the  gales  of  autumn.     Thou 
Must  never  leave  me,  dearest,  for  with  thee 
My  spirit's  life  would  perish. 

I  have  marked 

Thy  pale  cheek  growing  paler  ;  I  have  watched 
The  bright,  unearthly  glitter  of  thine  eye, 


TO    ,    DURING    HIS    ILLNESS.          165 

And  seen  the  crimson  spot  upon  thy  brow, 
The  omens  of  the  grave.     Thy  pallid  lip 
Trembles  as  with  a  keen,  unspoken  pain, 
And  there  are  times  when  o'er  thy  sunken  face 
Deep,  mournful  shadows,  and  bright  spirit-gleams, 
Follow  each  other,  telling  that  thy  thoughts 
Are  of  the  tomb  and  heaven. 

Thy  hand  is  cold, 

And  damp  and  deathlike  when  'tis  pressed  in  mine, 
And  though  few  years  have  yet  been  thine  on  earth, 
Bright  silver  threads,  like  waning  spectres,  gleam 
Amid  the  raven  curls  that  float  around 
Thy  temples  pale.     Thy  voice  hath  fainter  grown, 
And  though  its  melody  is  sweeter  now 
Than  even  when,  in  thy  young  years  of  health 
And  manly  strength,  thy  first  dear  words  of  love 
Were  breathed  into  my  ear,  its  sweetness  seems 
Caught  from  the  spirit-world.     Ay,  its  low  tones 
Soften  and  melt,  each  day,  as  if  they  were 
Attuning,  even  now,  their  cadences 


TO    ,    DURING    HIS    ILLNESS. 

To  join  the  angel  harmonies  that  float 
Upon  the  air  of  Eden. 

Yet,  oh  stay ! 

The  earth  is  beautiful  to  thee ;  and  while 
Thou  lingerest  here,  thy  presence  makes  it  bright 
And  beautiful  to  me.     Stay  !  stay  !  oh  stay  ! 
And  do  not  leave  my  life  a  cheerless  night, 
Without  one  gleaming  star  upon  the  cold 
Blue  desert  of  its  sky.     My  heart  has  flung 
The  whole  wealth  of  its  hoarded  love  on  thee  ; 
Fame's  choicest  garland  blooms  upon  thy  brow, 
Won  proudly  by  thy  glorious  genius  ;  thine 
Is  the  loud  worship  of  the  shouting  throng ; 
Fortune  has  poured  her  treasures  at  thy  feet, 
And  many  friends,  who  love  thee  earnestly, 
Are  watching  with  alternate  hope  and  fear 
From  day  to  day  the  changes  of  thy  face, 
Betokening  life  or  death. 

Then  live,  oh  live 
For  me,  for  friends,  for  glory,  for  mankind  ! 


TO ,     DURING    HIS    ILLNESS.          167 

Thy  strength  of  soul  has  made  thee  conqueror 

In  every  mortal  strife.     Oh  struggle  now 

With  the  last  enemy !     Ah,  well  I  know 

That  thou,  whose  tones  were  never  breathed  in  vain, 

Canst,  by  their  deep,  enchanting  music,  win 

The  angel  health  back  to  thy  life  once  more. 

LOUISVILLE,  1852. 


THE    END. 


IMHIVBHfo 


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